"Kate Forsyth - Eileanan 05 - The Skull Of The World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Forsyth Kate)

and her twin sister Iseult. The apprentice witch had been without family for so long she could only feel
pleasure at the idea of meeting a relative, but it was obvious the Khan'cohban regarded her with
resentment and suspicion. Her back was stiff, her hands clenched by her sides, her gaze averted. Isabeau
remembered the troubled history of the Firemaker's family and said nothing.

The cave was low and dank-smelling, lit only by the bonfire built toward the back. A heavy pall of smoke
hung in the air, making Isabeau's eyes sting. Sitting around the fire in the familiar cross-legged position
were the Old Mother and the council of Scarred Warriors. Further away from the fire sat the storytellers,
the metalsmiths, the weavers and the Firekeepers. All cast her one quick glance then lowered their eyes
to their hands, returning to their work.

Isabeau knelt before the Old Mother, not daring to scrutinize her face though she longed to search for a
resemblance to her great-grandmother, the Fire-maker. After a while the First of the Scarred Warriors
demanded, "You have dared to cross our boundaries. What is your business here?"

Isabeau lifted her staff so they could see the red-dyed feathers and tassels. "I go in search of my name,"
she answered respectfully. "I beg leave to pass through your lands on my way to the Skull of the World."

The First of the Warriors said gruffly, "Those on the name-quest are under a geas to the Gods of White
and are therefore under their protection. You may travel freely."

Isabeau made the gesture of thanks and raised her eyes. She saw a middle-aged woman with a
highboned face set in heavy lines of pride and temper, and sunken eyes that gleamed blue in the firelight.
Her long red hair, drawn back tightly from her brow, was beginning to be dulled by gray. Isabeau could
have been looking at a younger version of her great-grandmother, except this woman wore the tawny
spotted fur of the native lynx, the totem of her pride. The broad head with its snarling muzzle and black
tufted ears hung down her back.

The blue-eyed woman who had fetched Isabeau gave a sharp protest. "But she is the get of the
Fire-maker!" she cried. "See her eyes, blue as the sky, and her hair, red as flame. She is one of the Red,
sent to deceive us and spy on us. The Firemaker regrets her overture of peace and seeks to disinherit us
again!"
Anger and suspicion flashed across the Old Mother's face. She leaned forward and seized Isabeau's face
in a painful grip, turning it so the firelight blazed upon it. Then the fur cap Isabeau wore was torn off so
her abundant red curls sprang free. The circle of watchers muttered angrily.

"Never trust the dragon," the First of the Storytellers said grimly.

The Old Mother nodded, her mouth compressed into a thin line. "We have always known the Pride of
the Fire Dragon were our enemies," she said. "I have often pondered the meaning behind the
Fire-maker's gesture of friendship these last few years. She has ever been jealous of her power, and
though we hoped she spoke truth when she spoke of her acceptance of me as her rightful heir, often I
have been beset by doubt. Now it seems as if this doubt has foundation."

Isabeau was dismayed. Carefully she made the gesture of respect and then said, "Old Mother, it is true I
am of the Firemaker's get but I have no desire to disinherit you. I wish only to travel unhindered upon my
naming quest. I was assured I would be given leave to cross your land since the Pride of the Fighting
Cats and the Pride of the Fire Dragon are at peace."

There was a snort of disbelief from the blue-eyed warrior. "You lie!" she cried. "Do you think I do not