Eileanan - The Skull Of The World Part 5

Isabeau watched him slog his way down through the snow then followed suit, too tired to bother strapping on her skimmer. She came to a little copse of trees and sat with her back against one, looking out over the valley. Winding its way down through the valley was the Lament of the G.o.ds, but she was too far away to hear its wailing. All was quiet.

"Speechless, you shall speak my name.

"Must you speak? Why then again, "In speaking you shall say the same."

Isabeau spoke the words aloud, though softly. Buba perched on her knee, blinking her eyes sleepily.

Isabeau repeated the riddle. What name is it that is said without speaking?

It is so lovely and quiet, she thought rather drowsily. No bird sang here in the wilderness of snow, no insect chirruped. There was only the silence of snow. "Be as snow," her Scarred Warrior had told her many times. "Snow is gentle, snow is silent, snow is inexorable." Like the White G.o.ds, Isabeau thought.

Cruel and cold and without voice. Why do they no' speak to me?

Her thoughts drifted. She wondered rather crossly why the Khan'cohbans were always wrapping things up in riddles. It was like Brun, the little cluricaun that had helped save her life after she had been tortured.

He too had loved to speak in riddles. Isabeau wondered with an odd little tremor of laughter whether the cluricauns and the Khan'cohbans were related. One so tall and white and grim, the other little and hairy and bubbling over with mischief.

Buba crept into Isabeau's sleeve to sleep, murmuring a little in her soft owl voice. Isabeau rested herhead on her arms, closing her eyes. She was very tired. Why do the White G.o.ds no' speak? she thought with a thread of panic. I canna return to the pride if I do no' find out my name . . .

The odd thing about the cluricaun was that so many of his riddles had proved to cut right to the very heart of things. At the time they had seemed like nonsense but later he had proved to speak with rare insight and clarity. Were the Khan'cohbans' riddles like that?

The First of the Storytellers had said, "When you seek, you cannot find." It had made Isabeau laugh at the time. It had seemed so typically Imeaningless. Yet here she was, seeking the meaning of the riddle, seeking her name and totem, seeking desperately for some vision or voice that would tell her what she wanted to know. Seeking and finding nothing. Nothing but silence.

Something seemed to connect in her mind. Isabeau opened her eyes and looked up at the pure, empty sky. What name was it that was said without speaking? What name was it that was said with silence? Silence itself, o' course.

And so the White G.o.ds truly were voiceless, if they spoke with silence. How then was Isabeau to find out her name?

She remembered her guardian Meghan saying a long time ago as she had set out on her first quest: "The journey itself will be your first lesson." That had surely proved to be the truth. Isabeau had learned much about herself and the world on that first difficult journey down to the sea. And she had learned a great deal on this journey too. She had discovered strengths in herself she did not know she had. She had found her true Talent.

Excitement suddenly thrilled through her. She scrambled to hei feet, ignoring the soft murmur of protest from her sleeve. Tiredness dropped away from her like a cloak. She knew now what her name was.

Khan'tinka, She of Many Shapes. Isabeau the Shapechanger.

That afternoon, as she came down toward the river, Isabeau saw a great clenched talon protruding out of the snow, just like the frost giant's hand had out of the avalanche that had almost killed her. She knelt beside it and saw it belonged to a dead blizzard owl. Half buried in the snow, its round head was bent at a strange angle, its eyes closed. She took the broken knife from her weapons belt and carefully cut off the owl's talon. As large as her own hand, it was fringed with white feathers with four hooked, black claws. Under the pressure of her knife, the bone snapped cleanly and she hung it around her neck with a length of plaited cord.

As she rose to go she saw the owl's talon had been resting upon a great stone of white quartz crystal.

Wonderment filled her. She lifted it up and felt her palm tingle as it came in contact with the stone. She stood for a long time, turning it in her hands. It was perfectly symmetrical, with twelve faces that flashed with color as the light glanced off the edges. She had only ever seen such a perfectly formed uncut crystal once before. That had been mounted on feet shaped like claws and was one of Meghan's most treasured possessions. Carefully, with a sense of fear and awe, Isabeau wrapped the stone in the remains of her old shirt and tucked it into her satchel. Indeed the White G.o.ds had spoken.

The journey back to the haven took Isabeau over a month. She followed the course of the river most of the way, finding a greater variety of foods growing near the warmth of its waters. She stayed for a few days at the haven of the Pride of the Gray Wolf, feasted and honored by the family of her young friend.He wore with pride the s.h.a.ggy gray skin of a timber wolf, which he had fought and killed the afternoon of their escape from the mountain. He was named Khan'moras, meaning "swift and cunning as the wolf." On his left cheek was the b.l.o.o.d.y red line of a newly cut initiation scar.

Her satchel filled to bursting with fresh supplies and new clothes to replace the ones she had lost, Isabeau at last left the warmth and shelter of the Gray Wolves' cave and set out on her journey home. Although she could not skim along the sh.o.r.e of the river, it was swift and easy walking and she made fairly good time. Buba was happier in the river valley, for there were many trees in which to roost and many varieties of insects on which to feast. Isabeau was happier too, able to swim in the warm waters and rest in the sweet-scented dimness under the pine trees.

Finally she had to leave the river and climb up into the mountains again. It was slow and difficult progress, hampered by the foul weather and the steepness of the terrain. At last she crossed the mountain height and was able to skim down toward the haven of the Pride of the Fire Dragon.

She slogged wearily up the slope to the haven late one evening in the last few days of winter. The sun had set and it was very cold, but Isabeau was too eager to reach home to look for somewhere to camp. She was challenged by one of the sentries and had to shout the pa.s.sword to avoid being shot with his crossbow. Once he realized who she was, though, he brought her in speedily to the Firemaker and she was greeted with more warmth and excitement than she had ever seen any Khan'cohban demonstrate.

Isabeau had not been the only child of the pride to be sent on her initiation journey that winter, but she was one of only three to return and the last. They had given her up for dead and Isabeau was rather shocked at the ravages her long absence had made to the Firemaker's face. Her great-grandmother seized her in her arms and held her against her heart. Isabeau was shocked to see tears reddening the heavy eyelids.

At last the Firemaker let her go and Isabeau knelt before her, hands folded on her lap.

"I would ask of you the story of your name," the old woman said with great ceremony. "Will you answer in fullness and in truth?"

"You ask of me my name. Do you offer me your name in return?"

"I do," the Firemaker replied. Isabeau bowed her head and crossed her legs, her hands upturned on her thighs. She was weary and cold, and all her clothes were still damp from the snow, but she took her time over the telling as she ought. Only the Firsts and the Council of Scarred Warriors were there to hear her story and they listened with great interest, occasionally commenting to each other with a guttural word or emphatic gesture.

When she told of her transformation into an owl, a stir of surprise ran over them. Isabeau saw the Soul-Sage smile and finger the withered talon that hung around her neck. Isabeau described her difficulty in changing back into her own form and then her hunt through the snow in the shape of a snow lion. This time the stir of amazement was more marked.

At last Isabeau reached the end of her story. She showed the a.s.sembled listeners the owl's talon that hung between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. They were all impressed, even the Scarred Warriors who had at first glanced at Isabeau with some disdain for she had not worn the freshly killed pelt of some predatory animal. It was not unknown for questers to return without a new fur cloak. Isabeau's own father had returned with a live dragon to show his mastery over a beast of power and prestige. He had been one of the greatest warriors the pride had known, even though he had not worn the skin of his totem. An owl's talon was a sign of great power, though, and so they looked at her with new respect and even awe."So it is that I am named Khan'tinka, She of Many Shapes," Isabeau finished, "and can fly with the owl, queen of the night, messenger of the G.o.ds."

She bent her head and silence fell over the circle of listeners. Then the Firemaker said, very softly, "Welcome to the pride, Khan'tinka. I am Khan'lysa, proud and strong as the snow lioness."

The First of the Scarred Warriors repeated her words and then told his name: Khan'derna, brave as the saber leopard. The Soul-Sage was next. She was named Khan'deric, swift as the falcon. One by one the council of warriors told her their names in strict order of their hierarchy. Isabeau's Scarred Warrior teacher was named Khan'bornet, meaning "powerful as the bear."

When all had told her their names, she was brought a mug of a heady brew of fermented berries called ika. She drank deeply, almost choking as it scorched its way down her throat and into her belly. Heat spread out through her limbs, bringing with it light-headed euphoria. One by one the others all drank, calling the blessing of the White G.o.ds down upon her. Then the Soul-Sage came toward her, her sharp dagger in her hand.

Isabeau had only time for a flash of fear then the Soul-Sage had slashed her left cheek with two swift movements. There was a brief burning sensation, then Isabeau felt the warm blood gushing down her face. She put up her hand and it came away b.l.o.o.d.y, though she felt little pain. They gave her more ika to drink then brought ice to press against the wound. After a while Isabeau felt her cheek throbbing but the ika had brought her a pleasant floating feeling and she hardly noticed the pain.

Then she was presented to the rest of the pride, though her name remained a secret, known only to those who had heard the full story. There was a feast in honor of her return and Isabeau was served first, much to her pleasure. Child no longer, she would never again have to wait with the little ones for the sc.r.a.pings of the pot. Among the Khan'cohbans, drink and food were never taken together, but after they had all eaten their fill the ika was offered around again, and there were mock wrestling matches and displays of acrobatic finesse. Isabeau's head was swimming and she sank into an exhausted sleep even while the Khan'cohbans still leaped and somersaulted around the cave.

She woke in the morning with a pounding head, a dry mouth and thick tongue, a heaving stomach, and a cheek that throbbed like a burn. All she could face was melted snow before burrowing back into her furs to sleep again. When she woke the second time she gingerly felt the cut on her cheek, which was stiff and sore, then bent over one of the pools of water so she could see her face. Dimly she saw the shape of a triangular scar slashing her left cheek. Carefully she rubbed in healing salve, ate a little bread and fruit, and crawled back into her furs to sleep again.

It was morning once again when she woke and the cave was virtually empty, the children all out tending the ulez, the hunters in search of game. The Soul-Sage sat beside her, eyes shut in meditation. As soon as Isabeau sat up, hand to her dizzy head, one hand groping for her wooden drinking cup, the shaman's eyes snapped open. She pa.s.sed Isabeau the mug filled with cold water. Isabeau drank thirstily, wondering how she could still feel like a wrung-out rag two days after the feast. The Soul-Sage smiled grimly. "Ika makes even the strongest warrior wish for the peace of death the morning after," she said.

"Show me your stone."

Isabeau glanced up at her, wondering how she had known about the crystal. She had meant to bring the glittering stone out to show around proudly but somehow it had slipped her mind. Isabeau had not thought of it again. She showed the quartz rock to her teacher, who examined it closely though she did not take it into her hands.

The wise woman nodded slowly, then said, "They call this the icestone. It is believed to be fossilized ice.A stone of power for clear-seeing, future-seeing, far-seeing. It is a mark of great favor from the G.o.ds of ice and snow. Guard your first stone well, Khan'tinka."

It gave Isabeau a little thrill to be called by her new name. Shapedhanger. She wondered what Meghan would say when she knew. A great longing woke in her to see her old guardian and share with her the tale of her adventures.

"It's time for me to go home," she said abruptly.

The Soul-Sage nodded. "Many long journeys before you are worthy of the seventh scar," she said, tracing the mark between Isabeau's forehead with one long, multi-jointed finger. "The White G.o.ds have shown you favor so far. You are in their debt. In time they will ask for payment. In the meantime, remember what you have been taught. Learn and keep silence."

Isabeau nodded. "I shall," she promised and knew that was a geas in itself.

The Cave of a Thousand Kings

The Cave of a Thousand Kings arched high overhead, ripples of reflected light wavering all over the smooth gleaming walls. Light struck down from an aperture high overhead, penetrating deep into the sea-green water that surged and swayed against the rocks. At the far end of the great cavern a waterfall fell down in silvery cascades which flung up a haze of steam and spray. Rising from this mist was a tall, sparkling throne, built on the pinnacle of a rock that thrust up through the tumult of foam at the waterfall's foot. Carved from crystal, the throne caught the wide ray of light and refracted it into sparks of icy color that dazzled the eye.

Reclining on the crystal throne was the Fairgean king. As sleek and muscular as a tiger shark, his skin had the same opalescent shimmer as the sheets of mother-of-pearl shining in the rock. He wore nothing but a cloak of white seal fur and a jeweled skirt of seaweed, the waistband hung with daggers of both steel and fretted coral. Around his burly neck hung a great many necklaces of dried seaweed hung with coral and jewels, and he wore a coronet of pearls and diamonds. Set in the center of the crown was a black pearl the size of a storm petrel's egg, which gleamed with mysterious and subtle color. His hair flowed down from beneath the coronet like a curtain of black silk, and two thick, notched tusks curved out from either side of his lipless mouth. It was a cruel face, contemptuous and unforgiving.

At his feet sat his three favorite wives, all with eyes as silvery-pale as moonlight on sea foam, and blue-black hair tied back with pearls and white coral. A human concubine was chained to the very base of the rock, her matt skin almost as blue as theirs with cold, her fair hair as elaborately arranged. There was nothing but hopeless despair in her eyes, though, and she cringed down whenever the King's voice rose in a roar, which it often did. She was not chained to prevent her from trying to escape but to stop her from trying to drown herself.

The King's seventeen sons rested on rocks on either side or wrestled together in the icy-cold water.

Although the waterfall which cascaded down from the higher caves was steaming hot, the depths of the pool in the Cave of a Thousand Kings had never been plumbed. It was as cold as the sea outside where icebergs drifted.

The many tiers of the cavern were crowded with Fairgean warriors, talking, gambling, listening to thesongs of the concubines and the eerie wail of the conch choir. There were three hundred in all, the elite of the Fairgean martial force, resting safe and warm from the ice storms that howled outside.

Nila, the seventeenth son, sat as far away from the throne as he could get. Unlike his brothers he did not wear a great number of necklaces and bracelets twisted with coral, turquoise, amethyst or sea-diamonds.

He wore only the black pearl he had found in the summer seas, hanging from a fine sealskin cord.

Fand came and knelt beside turn, offering him a tray of delicacies. He accepted a slither of raw fish heaped with fish eggs without looking up from his game of sea-stirk knuckles. Another slave refilled his goblet with sea squill wine. Fand waited for her to move away before saying, very softly, her hair hanging over her face: "Beware. I feel cold currents of evil intent. Watch yourself."

Nila bent back his head to toss the morsel of food into his mouth. As he swallowed he glanced around the cavern. At least three of his brothers were watching him, their lipless mouths stretched in pleased antic.i.p.ation. As his eyes moved over their faces, they glanced away, trying without success to subdue their smiles. Nila felt all his muscles tighten. It took an effort of will to turn back to his game without letting his expression change. He cast his sea-stirk knuckles, then lifted the goblet of wine to his lips. If all his senses had not been strained to the limit he may never have noticed the faint tingle in his lips as he drank.

He did notice, though, and every nerve and sinew in his body jangled. Involuntarily he spat his mouthful out, causing those about him to glance at him in surprise.

"That sea squill must have been past its prime," he managed to say. His tongue felt stiff.

He got to his feet with a bow and a quick word of excuse and made his way to the back of the Cave of a Thousand Kings. Steps led up past the cascades and into the dark labyrinth of tunnels behind called the Fathomless Caves. Stumbling a little, he climbed out of sight then bent and washed his mouth out again and again. The inside of his mouth and throat were completely numb. Once or twice he retched, though he managed not to succ.u.mb to the waves of hot sickness beating through him. At last Nila stopped, his head hanging, trembling with delayed shock. If he had swallowed that mouthful of wine, he would have died an agonizing death. He would be dead now, and all his brothers smiling to themselves.

At last he got up and found his stumbling way to his cave. Although it opened out onto the side of the cliff, the cave entrance was sealed over with ice now and inside all was dark and silent. He carefully shook out his seal furs, then curled up inside their warmth. Inside he was still shaking.

It was many hours before the numbness in his cheeks faded to a burning tingle that almost drove him mad. He was parched and dry, his limbs weak, his stomach uneasy. Even though he had not swallowed the poisoned wine, enough had seeped through the pores of his skin for him to be made exceedingly uncomfortable. At one point he became aware of a cool hand on his brow, then Fand was lifting his head and feeding him slivers of ice. He slept then, though he was much troubled with fevered nightmares. He woke with a jerk much later, to find her still there with a goblet of icy water to soothe his inflamed throat.

"You should not be here," he managed to say. "They will suspect . . ."

"I have been and gone," she whispered. "Lie still, sleep. I will watch over you."

He woke sometime during the night to see his father standing over him, a priestess holding a nightglobe high so its greenish, luminous light cast peculiar shadows over the fur heaped bed. His father was frowning heavily.

"What ails you, boy?" he asked.

"Must have been something I ate," Nila managed to reply.The King looked at the priestess and she grinned. Her teeth shone oddly in the luminescent green.

"Loreli poisoning, my blessed liege," she said in the sibilant tones of the Priestesses of Jor.

The King roared with rage. "My stupid, weak-willed, cowardly sons!" he shouted, striking his palm with his fist. "Do we not have enemies enough without the sons of my loins quarreling like boxerfish? Do they not see we need all of our strength if we are to grind those Jor-cursed humans to sand? What have I done to be worthy of such blind, ignorant, jelly-spined children?"

"Your seventeenth son, the least of all the princes, has been foolish enough to flaunt a black pearl upon his breast," the priestess hissed.

The King smiled thinly. "So I had observed. Pride and ambition have always been the defining characteristics of Those Anointed By Jor. Yet if my seventeenth son thinks to sit upon the Crystal Throne, it is his brothers and I who should be giving our wirie to the Cupbearer to taste. Yet somehow I do not fear. This tuskless boy is too feeble and soft to dare squeeze the loreli fish into my wine or hide a sea urchin in the beds of his brothers. He is nothing but a bawling babe, weak as sea anemones' p.i.s.s."

Nila lay stiff and silent, p.r.i.c.ked with humiliation that the King should speak of him so before a woman, even if that woman was a Priestess of Jor. The King laughed contemptuously, prodded Nila with one wide-webbed foot, and said, "Do not sleep too deeply, my son." He turned and left, his necklaces and bracelets rattling.

The priestess hung over him for a while longer. The viperfish in the gla.s.s...o...b..swam about lazily so the light shed by its luminescent organs flowed over his face in soul-troubling rhythms. Although he could not meet her eyes, he saw her grin and then she too was gone in a swirl of sealskin.

When Nila was sure they had really left, he lifted his bedcovers so Fand could crawl out. It was too dark in the cave to see her face but he could feel how she was trembling. He held her close but she resisted him. "What if they had caught me, Nila?" she said in a scared little voice. "I could feel her eyes on me through the furs like hot suns. I know she knew I was there."

"What of it?" Nila asked. "She would just have thought you my concubine. Even the lowest of the King's sons may take a woman to his bed if he so desires." There was a trace of bitterness in his voice.

Fand shuddered. "I do not know why, but my skin is crawling. When I saw the glow of the nightglobe and heard their footsteps down the hall, I knew I had to hide. My heart was hammering the whole time and I could hardly breathe . . ."

"The priestesses make us all feel like that," Nila comforted. "There is no need for you to fear them, though. You are one of the King's slaves. They will leave you alone." He pulled her down to rest within the circle of his arm, and she nestled her head into his shoulder. "I should not stay," she whispered.

"Someone will notice . . ."

"Let them," he replied tersely and felt her warm breath against his skin as she sighed.

When Nila appeared in the Cave of a Thousand Kings the next morning, he was immediately aware of the undercurrents of malice flowing around him. He allowed the slaves to serve him with little crustaceans still wriggling with life and ate with every sign of enjoyment, washing his repast down with sea-grape juice. A few of his brothers asked him how he was with spurious concern in their voices. To all of them he answered blandly, "Very well, thank you."

It was over a week before he at last felt safe enough to meet with Fand. It was difficult to sneak awayfrom the cave with so many eyes watching his every move but at last he managed it, knowing Fand would sense his intent and meet him in the ruins aboveground. There they would be safe from prying eyes, for none dared make their way through the darkness of the Fathomless Caves. The steps to the old witches'

tower were far beyond the usual pa.s.sages and caverns used by the royal family and their retainers, and only kelp ropes marked the pa.s.sages where natural light did not fall.

Although the Fairgean royalty had occupied the Isle of the G.o.ds for many thousands of years, the labyrinthine cave system that riddled the old volcano had never been fully explored. Most of the caverns were hidden far away from the surface, where no light could penetrate. Since only the Priestesses of Jor carried nightglobes, this meant the Fairgean went only where rifts in the cave walls let in natural light or where bygone explorers had left kelp ropes to show the way. In the lower caves lurked many terrible monsters whose appet.i.te for warm blood was never satiated. There were holes in the floor where jets of hissing steam exploded without warning and many caverns were flooded at high tide, the dark angry sea rushing in at breakneck speeds. Jor himself, the G.o.d of the Sh.o.r.eless Seas, was said to have been born in the Fiery Womb, deep within the island.

When the human invaders had come, they had driven the Fairgean out of their hallowed caves with swords of steel and flaming torches. These burning brands had illuminated caverns where no light had ever before fallen. Aghast at such sacrilege, the Fairgean had defended the sacred mystery of the Fathomless Caves with all their strength, but they had had no recourse against fire and metal. Many hundreds had died.

The tailless intruders had moored their ships in the Cave of a Thousand Kings, used the royal bedchambers to store their barrels and sacks, and had carved a staircase to the sky out of living rock.

On the pinnacle of the Isle of the G.o.ds they had built a great fortress, where their witches had lived and studied new and terrible ways to kill the faeries of the sea. This fortress lay in ruins now, open to the icy winds and occupied only by seabirds and ghosts. It was to this haunted pile of stones that Nila now climbed, his eyes wide open and anxiously searching, though all he could see was impenetrable blackness. Although he and Fand had first discovered the way to the old tower some years ago, the young prince was never able to shake the terror that he would wander from the path and be lost forever in the Fathomless Caves.

At last, with a little gasp of relief, he saw a glimmer of gray light. He climbed the steps quickly, the rough stone sc.r.a.ping his webbed feet. Snow whirled against his face, stinging his skin with cold, and he drew his sealskin cloak closer about him.

He emerged in the midst of a heap of gray stones, all blanketed with snow. Here and there a broken arch rose in a graceful curve against the leaden sky. Most of the building lay in great piles, however, smashed beyond repair. Fand waited for him in the meager shelter of one crazily leaning wall, shivering with cold.

She was dressed only in the tattered skins of a slave and her skin was mottled blue and purple. He wrapped his arms and cloak about her, and they coupled quickly against the wall. There was desperation in their haste, a recklessness that took no heed of the bitter cold. When they were done, they leaned their heads into each other's necks, panting and close to tears.

"I cannot go on like this," Nila said. "I want to have you for my wife, without fear."

He felt her take a shuddering breath and then she said, without scorn, "Do not be a fool. You know that can never be."

He pressed his mouth against her soft, unsealed skin and said nothing. For a long time they stood together, leaning against the cold stone, then at last she pushed him away, saying miserably, "I must get back. There is work to be done.""Next summer we shall flee the winter seas," he whispered. "We shall find ourselves an island in the sun and be together forever and happy." She nodded. "We shall make a beautiful little baby together and you shall sing to him and I shall spear fish for you both and we shall make love in the warm ocean and I shall make you a crown of pearls . . ."

"And I shall gather sea quills and make us sweet wine," she whispered and he kissed her, long and lovingly.

"I need to be able to dream of a future," he said when at last he moved his mouth away. She nodded, though her face was averted, her sea-green eyes wet with tears.

The falling snow thickened. "We should get back," Nila said, unable to repress his loathing at the thought of returning to the royal court. Fand nodded and together they hurried back to the gaping dark mouth of the stairwell.

They made their slow, anxious way through the tunnels hand-in-hand, sliding their feet over the rough ground to avoid falling into any of the many pits. At last their groping fingers met a rusting metal chain that the witches had hung up many years ago. They sighed in unison and hurried on, their steps sure now in the darkness. At last they came into a long, low pa.s.sage illuminated dimly by a crack in the roof, and they were able to move with more confidence.

Fand left him at the beginning of the Scalding Falls and Nila made his way down the side of the chain of bubbling pools and cascades toward the Cave of a Thousand Kings, his step heavy. As he came toward the first of the long falls, Nila heard a swish behind him and half turned. He saw a swift downward movement, a fur cloak swinging. Instinctively he threw up his arm. The blow that was aimed for his head hit his forearm instead, cracking bone. He cried out. Another blow caught the side of his temple, then he was punched hard in the stomach. He doubled over, choking. A hail of blows hammered him down to the ground. He slid helplessly into unconsciousness.

Nila woke to darkness. He was lying half in, half out of icy-cold water, his breast and face against wet, slimy stone. His body was aching and bruised, his forearm throbbing. When he shifted his weight, a sharp agonizing pain shafted through his flesh. He cried out involuntarily and his voice echoed and echoed.

Nila's heart shrank with fear.