The young warrior spread his hands helplessly. “I scarcely know where to begin,” he confessed. “I—well, there was one thing that puzzled me…”
Iscalda laughed. “You want to know where the clothes go?” Even in the dim light she could see his skin take on the darker hue of a blush. To rescue them both from his embar rassment, she went on quickly. “The garments just seem to be part of us and change as we do—into horsehair, perhaps—who knows? You might try asking the Windeye. Leather, wool, flax—fastenings of thong or carven horn or bone—anything that once was living matter—changes with us. Weapons, buckles, personal adornments of metal or polished stone, do not change, however. If we wish to take such items with us, they must be carried by another, in human shape. It’s sometimes inconvenient—but at least the clothes are always there when we change back to our human form, and that’s the most important thing.”
Yazour smiled. “Given the barbaric climate of these mountains, Lady, I cannot fail to agree with you.”
Iscalda had noticed that the young man always seemed to require more garments than her own folk, and yet he always seemed to be shivering. Chiamh had told her that the sun burned much hotter where Yazour came from, but she found that impossible to imagine. She was robbed of her chance to question him, however, for he was already speaking again. “How came your people to be as they are, Lady? What is their history?”
Now it was Iscalda’s turn to shrug. “That I cannot answer. No one knows where we came from, or how we came to be—not even the Windeye. It seems that we were always here, and always as we are.”
“And yet you knew that you differed from other races,” Yazour said thoughtfully.
“I believe so.” Iscalda nodded. “That is why we have always kept secret our ability to change our shapes. Forgive me, Yazour, but your own people, the Khazalim, have always been notorious for enslaving other races. Imagine what useful slaves we Xandim would make, if the truth were known!”
“No one shall enslave you, Lady!” The vehemence of Yazour’s reply startled Iscalda. “The secret of the Xandim will always be safe with me. Even were it otherwise, I am an exile from the lands of the Khazalim and may not return on pain of death. I owe no allegiance to the Khisu whatsoever.”
Iscalda felt her heart clench with pity for the young warrior. She too had been an exile, and she knew the bitterness and sense of loss that he must be feeling. She bit her lip. “You know, do you not,” she said quietly, “that even if you wished to do so, you would never be allowed to return to your lands alive, now that you know our secret?”
Yazour nodded gravely. “I had guessed as much. But it makes no difference. My way lies northward now. Where Aurian and Anvar go, I will go also—and if I survive the approaching conflict—” He shrugged. “Well, then we will see. But one thing I can promise you: I will never return to the land of my birth.”
“Never?” Iscalda sighed in sympathy with the young warrior. “That seems too harsh a fate…”
“Iscalda! What are you doing out here beyond the sentries?” Iscalda recognized the familiar outline of Schiannath, walking toward them, silhouetted against the glow of the distant flames. “At least you had the good sense not to wander off alone,” he added, but as he drew nearer and discovered the identity of her companion, Iscalda heard a note of doubt creep into his voice. She was stung into a swift defense of her companion.
“Must you treat me like a child, Schiannath?” The words came out more sharply than Iscalda had intended, and she strove to reach a more conciliatory tone. “I know that no one should be out alone, unguarded, dear brother, but following our long period of isolation, so many people overwhelm me at times. I crept away to be alone with the night, but Yazour discovered me and thought much the same as you. When he found me here, he kindly stayed to bear me company.”
“Indeed,” Yazour concurred. “But in truth, Schiannath, I was also glad of the opportunity to make the acquaintance of your sister in her human form at last.”
Schiannath came up between them and put an arm around each of their shoulders. The honeyed scent of mead was on his breath, and as he rested his weight upon her, Iscalda realized that he must have been drinking heavily from the flasks that each Xandim warrior carried—ostensibly, in case of emergencies. “You mistake me, my sister,” he told her, his voice slightly slurred. “Yazour, as far as I am concerned, you are not an enemy. You may be an Outlander—but did the Goddess herself not instruct me to befriend you?”
“What?” It was the first time that Iscalda had heard of this. She had a vague, equine memory of meeting the great cat in the pass—a recollection of terror and blood and rage—the buried, instinctive urge to defend her beloved brother at all costs from the predator. She also remembered Yazour—a still, dark huddle, with his lifeblood sinking into the chilling snow.
Her brother went on to explain how, in the pass beyond the Tower of Incondor, the Goddess Iriana Herself, in the form of one of the great Black Ghosts of Schiannath’s home mountains, had given him instructions to befriend and succor the wounded warrior. Iscalda listened, incredulous, as his tale unfolded—until, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Yazour’s mouth quirk in suppressed amusement. Goddess, indeed! The young warrior knew, or suspected, more about this matter than he was revealing, and Iscalda intended to get to the bottom of it—but not now.
“So, you see,” Schiannath was saying, “I trust you in the company of Yazour. I befriended him at first because I was told to, but later he earned my true respect. The rest of the Xandim, however, are another matter.”
At that, Iscalda switched her attention back to her brother’s words. “What have they to do with it?” she demanded.
“They will view me as another Outlander, and suspect me accordingly,” Yazour put in, his voice sharp with hostility. He was right, Iscalda realized.
“Exactly, Yazour,” Schiannath added. “They have no idea of what lies behind your inclusion in our party—and what reason have they to trust the word of my sister and myself, who have only lately been accepted on sufferance and through the most unusual circumstances, back into the Xandim?”
Iscalda looked at her brother through narrowed eyes. Clearly, he was not as drunk as she had thought. Despite the absence of light, he turned to look deep into her eyes. “There is, however, another complication, Iscalda—and one that you have not considered.”
“And what is that?” The Xandim maid felt the first true stirrings of alarm.
Schiannath sighed. “Your betrothal to Phalihas.”
“Nonsense!” Iscalda snapped. Her anger, however, was not directed at her beloved brother. It stemmed from a sudden, sinking fear. “The Herdlord is defeated now,” she protested. “Schiannath, you know I only agreed to the betrothal in the hope that I might have sufficient influence to protect you—and much good it did either of us, in the end. But Phalihas is defeated now. His reign and his power are ended. The Windeye would not permit him—”
“The Windeye cannot prevent him,” Schiannath said heavily. “I have just been talking to Chiamh. This is the heavy news that I had come to break. Iscalda, under Xandim Law you were betrothed to Phalihas. While you were exiled, the betrothal was void—but now that you have been accepted back into your tribe, the betrothal still stands. Should the Windeye ever allow Phalihas to revert to his human form—and how can Chiamh refuse?—you, of all people, should know the alternative—then you will belong to our former Herdlord, as you did before.”