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thighs. Her mouth was shut grimly but Isabeau knew she was restraining passionate words. It seemed the quick, impetuous temper that she and Iseult shared was an idiosyncrasy of the whole family. Among the Khan'cohban any strong emotion was regarded coldly, and Isabeau wondered fleetingly how her cousin had fared, growing up among such austere people. She cast her a swift look of sympathy but this acted like a lash to her cousin's lacerated pride. The fists tightened and she leaned forward, saying angrily, "It may be true that this stranger is the twin to the one we know, but does that mean she does not covet the godhead? I say she has come among us to lull us into sleep while she discerns our weaknesses. The peace between our prides is naught but a scab over a suppurating wound. For many centuries the dragons and the fighting cats have clashed, and we have suffered many times from their scorn. Should we forget that so easily? Do the storytellers not say, 'If you want peace, prepare for war'?"
    Anger sparked in Isabeau's eyes. "Have you forgotten these caves you shelter in are in the fire dragon's land?" she cried. "The Firemaker has made many overtures of peace to your pride, and given you these caves so you need not suffer the full force of the winter storms. She has named your Old Mother heir to the godhead, disinheriting her own descendants whose paths have led them away from the Spine of the World. Does all this mean nothing to your people?"
    "Never trust the dragon," the blue-eyed warrior said with heavy emphasis.
    Isabeau sprang to her feet. "Do you accuse me of lying?" There was as much incredulity as anger in her voice, for the Khan'cohbans were bound by a rigid code of honor that included an absolute taboo on falsehood, particularly when replying to a direct question.
    Her cousin was on her feet in an instant. "I do," she answered, and made the rudest, most contemptuous gesture in the Khan'cohban language.
    For a moment Isabeau was so angry she could not speak, then she said in a stifled voice, "Is this how the Pride of the Fighting Cats treats its guests? Have you forgotten I am on my naming-quest and thus due all honor and respect?"
    "I say your talk of the naming-quest is naught but a trick and a lie to lull us into false peace," her cousin retorted, her freckles drowned in the crimson that had swept up her throat and face.
    The First of the Scarred Warriors made an abrupt gesture of intervention, but the Khan'cohban woman was too livid with rage to heed him. She drew her knife in a swift motion and flung it at Isabeau's feet. "I challenge you to prove your truth upon my body!"
    Isabeau looked down at the quivering knife then around at the faces of the Khan'cohbans, who had all sprung to their feet at the first hint of confrontation. She knew such a gesture could not be ignored. The rules of honor demanded that she accept the challenge and defend her integrity. Such an accusation could only be answered in blood.
    Yet Isabeau had no desire to fight her own cousin and, although she had been trained in the art of the Scarred Warrior, believed violence was no solution. She looked up at her cousin and cold fingers of fear clenched around her heart. This was no mere challenge to be decided by the first drawing of blood. The Khan'cohban woman had murder in her eyes.
    "She is only a child and crippled!" the First Storyteller cried. "You cannot challenge a cripple."
    "She is one of the Red," the First Warrior replied slowly. "And has her seventh scar. That means she must have some power."
    The crowd stirred uneasily. Isabeau slowly bent and picked up the knife, then handed it back to her cousin, hilt outward. "We are kin," she said gently, "and I am on my naming-quest. I do not wish to answer your pride's hospitality with violence. I have told my story and your Soul-Sage has accepted the truth of my speaking. Will you not let me pass in peace? Once I have won my name and my scars I shall be returning to my own people and