The Goddess wore a skirt of overlapping blue waves and a tight red open-breasted bodice. Her white features and fierce dark stare reminded him of Pirra’s mother, the High Priestess.
He thought of the ghosts on the Ridge of the Dead. Did they come down by night and walk the silent halls of Kunisu?
Was Yassassara here now?
He ran.
More stairs, more passages. He burst through a doorway into the Great Court. Wherever he turned, painted crowds mocked him silently. Which way, Outsider?
He chose a door at random and was relieved to recognize the paintings in the passage. There was that buck with the fly on its ear, and the dormouse on the barley spike; a few more paces and he’d reach the stone bull half emerging from the wall—
The bull was gone.
In disbelief, Hylas passed his hands over the smooth cold stone where it had been. This was the place, he was sure of it.
With a prickle of fear, he remembered Pirra telling him how when she was little, she used to believe that it came alive at night . . .
In the passage ahead, he heard the scrape of hooves, and loud snorting animal breath.
His rushlight shrank to a dim glow.
Just before it blinked out, he saw a vast horned shadow on the wall.
26
The bull walked around the corner into the passage where Hylas stood frozen with horror. Taller than the tallest man, its dark bulk loomed before him. He breathed its hot rank smell. He took a step back.
The bull halted.
Hylas took another step back. The roof beams above him were too high to reach, and if he made a run for it, he’d be trampled to death.
Suddenly he became aware of a glimmer of light behind the bull. “Don’t move,” said Pirra’s voice from the gloom. A moment later, he saw her. In one hand she held a rushlight, in the other, a length of yellow silk.
At the sound of her voice, the bull swung around, its horns raking chunks of plaster off the walls. Pirra twitched the silk past its nose and disappeared the way she’d come. The bull threw down its head and clattered after her.
“Run!” she yelled.
But Hylas wasn’t going to let her face a monster on her own, and he raced after them: around the corner, down a ramp, through a big pair of bronze-studded doors flung wide and out into a vast, dim hall.
In a heartbeat he took in twin ranks of tall red columns supporting shadowy balconies, and a lamp at the far end, before a giant double axe of hammered gold. The floor was spattered with bull’s droppings; the smell hung thick in the air. Then he saw Pirra dodging behind a column, trailing the silk, with the infuriated bull in hot pursuit.
Hylas rushed toward them, waving his arms, shouting, “Here! After me!” But the bull was intent on Pirra. She fled for the next column, dropping the silk behind her. The beast trampled it and came on. She reached the column and ducked behind it. With startling agility the bull swerved to cut her off, the tip of one horn missing her thigh by a whisker.
“Here! Here!” yelled Hylas—but still the bull lunged at Pirra, trapping her behind the column.
Hylas put his hands to his mouth and howled like a wolf.
That got the bull’s attention, and it spun around, pawing the floor. Which of these infuriating humans should it attack—and where was the wolf?
Again Hylas howled. The bull flung up its head and bellowed. The ground shook and the great hall echoed with the roars of a hundred bulls.
Meanwhile, Pirra had seized her chance to escape: Hylas saw her making for some shadowy stairs halfway down the hall. The stairs were too narrow for the bull: If she reached them, she could climb to safety.
The bull had seen her; she wasn’t going to make it.
Suddenly out of the dark swooped a bolt of black lightning. It was Echo, skimming low over the bull’s back, then twisting around for another go. Enraged by this fresh intruder, the bull turned this way and that. Echo dived perilously low, drew in her wings at the last moment, and sped right between its front legs. Then she glided off and perched with a ringing eck-eck between the golden blades of the giant double axe.
For one frozen heartbeat, Pirra stared fixedly at the falcon on the axe; then she glanced back at Hylas. The bull was between them, he couldn’t reach the stairs.
“You go!” he shouted. “I’ll be all right!”
She vanished up the stairs and he raced back for the doorway—but the bull came thundering after him.
“Hylas!” yelled Pirra from somewhere behind. “There’s a beam in the passage!”
A beam? What did she mean? The bull was gaining on him, he could hear its grunting breath.
There’s a beam in the passage . . . Of course. Hurtling out of the hall, Hylas grabbed the brass-studded doors and swung them shut with a clang. He groped in the dark—found the beam propped against the wall—and dropped it in place, barring the doors the instant before the bull crashed into them.
The great doors of Kunisu shuddered, but held fast.
As Hylas leaned panting against the wall, he heard a furious bellow from the hall; then the diminishing clop of hooves as the bull trotted off—and finally a huffing snort that sounded not angry, but satisfied.
The bull had seen off the intruders, and regained possession of its domain.
“What were you doing over here?” cried Pirra when she found Hylas on his knees outside the Hall of the Double Axe.
“I got lost,” he panted. “And I didn’t expect to meet a giant bull! I thought—did it come out of the walls?”
“Of course not! The priests must’ve left it to guard Kunisu.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” he exploded.
“All I knew was that they might have left some kind of guardian, I didn’t know it was a bull! What were you doing wandering about in the understory in the dark? I woke up and found you gone, I looked all over!”
“I told you, I got lost!”
She’d dropped her rushlight in the Hall, but in the gloom she saw that he was shaking. So was she. She was furious with him for scaring her like that—and appalled by Echo’s sudden appearance in the Hall. The image of the falcon perched on the sacred double axe was seared on her mind. It was surely no chance that Echo had alighted there. It was a sign from the Goddess.
“Well anyway, thanks,” muttered Hylas. “If you hadn’t come, I’d have been finished.”
She swallowed. “Next time you wander off, wake me. Or maybe I should do what Userref used to do when I was little, and tie a thread to my bedpost and the other end round your wrist; that way, you can’t get lost.”
He snorted a laugh. Then he said, “But you know what this means? Userref can’t be here, or he’d have heard us shouting and come running. It’ll be dawn soon, let’s clear out. Can you find your room in the dark?”
“Hylas, I’ve lived here my whole life, I could find my way blindfolded.”
They emerged into the Great Court as the sky was getting light. Pirra quickened her pace, uneasily aware of all the times her mother had performed public sacrifices out here.
Hylas asked what they should do about the bull. “We can’t just leave it down there.”
How like Hylas, she thought with a pang, to think about that. “The priests will have left it water and hay,” she said. “Sooner or later they’ll come and let it out.”
At that moment, she heard the faint rearrangement of air that told her Echo was near, and an instant later, the falcon settled on her shoulder.
For a moment, Echo’s great dark eye met hers, and Pirra felt a jolt of meaning course through her. “I understand,” she told the falcon quietly.
Echo shook out her wings with a snap, then took a lock of Pirra’s hair and drew it gently through her beak.
“That bird’s mad,” said Hylas. “Did you see her fly between its legs?”
?
??She—she was just practicing flying,” muttered Pirra.
He caught something in her tone and gave her a curious glance. “Down in that hall, there was a lamp burning in front of the axe. Was it you who lit it?”
“Yes. When I was looking for you.”
“Why?”
“Because—because I had a question that needed answering.”
“Did it work?”
“Yes.”
They reached the East Stairs, and Hylas touched her shoulder. “That’s the way to the balcony above the river, yes? We should go up and check it’s still clear of Crows.”
“You go,” said Pirra, “I’ll wait here.” She couldn’t face the Ridge of the Dead, or the stone eye of her mother’s tomb.
“Are you all right?” said Hylas.
“Fine. This time, don’t get lost.”
As he took the stairs two at a time, Pirra slumped on the bottom one and hugged her knees to stop them shaking.
There was no escaping it now. She’d asked for a sign, and the Goddess had sent her the clearest one of all: Echo perched on one of the most sacred objects in Kunisu.
Pirra knew now what she had to do. The only question was whether she had the courage.
Footsteps above her, and Hylas came flying down the stairs. “They’re down by the river,” he whispered, grabbing her wrist and dragging her to her feet. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
When they reached her room, he rushed about gathering their gear. He noticed that she wasn’t helping. “Hurry up!”
“You go,” she told him. “I have to stay.”
He stared at her. “What?”
“I can’t go with you, Hylas. I have to stay here.”
“But the Crows—”
“I know. But I have to perform the Mystery. There’s no one else but me.”
27
“You can’t,” said Hylas. “The Crows are going to break in at any moment.”
“That’s why I’ve got to do it,” said Pirra. “I’ll never get another chance.”
“But Pirra there’s no time!”
“And if the Sun doesn’t come back, there’ll be famine, and no time for any of us!”
He stared at her. “You really mean to do this.”
“And I have to do it alone, Hylas. You need to get out while you can.”
“What, and leave you here by yourself?”
“I know Kunisu, the Crows don’t. I can hide for long enough to . . . Hylas please! Do this for me.” Now that she’d made up her mind, she was desperate for him to leave. Every moment he stayed made it harder.
He glanced at the slingshot in his hands, then back to her. “Why do you have to do it? What about all those priests—”
“They’re men. It has to be a priestess—”
“Which you’re not!”
“No, but I’m Yassassara’s daughter and I know what to do. There’s no time to explain, but I know—in here”—she struck her heart with her fist—“that I have to do what my mother would have done if she’d lived. If you want to help me, you have to go!”
He gave her a long searching look. Then his mouth set in a stubborn line. “No. I meant what I said in the mountains. We won’t be separated again.”
Pirra drew a breath. “This is different.”
“Why?”
She couldn’t tell him. If he knew, he’d never let her do it.
“No,” he said again. “I’m not leaving you. I’ll keep the Crows at bay while you do whatever it is you have to do—then we’re getting out of here. Together.”
Pirra halted before the double doors of the High Priestess’ innermost chamber. Her heart thudded against her breastbone and the rushlight trembled in her fist.
The doors creaked open at her touch. Outside, the dim gray day had dawned, but the chamber before her was dark. She had never been inside. She dreaded seeing Yassassara’s ghost warding her back.
Don’t think about Hylas, she told herself as she shut the doors behind her. But she couldn’t help it. He’d told her he was going to set traps for the Crows, and she’d given him hasty directions for finding his way, then they’d parted at the foot of the stairs. So fast. No time to say good-bye.
Don’t think about him—or Havoc or Echo. They’re behind you now. They’re in the past.
Once, she’d seen her mother perform a Mystery, but that had been a far lesser one than this. What she was about to attempt was unlike all other rites. There would be no bull-leaping, no sacrifice of ox or ram, and no watching crowd. This Mystery came from ancient times, when the gods had demanded human life.
She made out a brazier set for a fire, and touched it with the rushlight. Flames leaped, and with a jolt, she saw that everything for the Mystery had been laid out, waiting for her.
The green glass bowl of frankincense, the ivory dishes of ground earth, the rock-crystal phials of sacred oils . . . She realized that on the other side of Kunisu, she would find another brazier on the West Balcony, and the alabaster conch shell for summoning the Goddess.
With a thrill of horror, Pirra stared at the rich robes of Keftian purple laid out on the chest. They still bore the shape of her mother’s body. Perhaps Yassassara had been about to begin when the Plague had struck her down—or perhaps she had foreseen that her daughter would stand here now.
Suddenly, Pirra’s spirit rebelled. I don’t have to do this! I don’t even know if I can! Why should I forfeit my life if I don’t even know it’ll work? I’m not going to, I’m going to find Hylas and run away . . .
And then what? said the other part of her mind. Hide out somewhere and watch Keftiu wither and die?
Again she saw the child in the cavern, eking out her last days in hunger and despair.
Setting her teeth, Pirra filled the porphyry basin with seawater from the jar, then hurriedly stripped and washed. Her teeth chattered as she twisted gold wire in her hair and piled it in coils on her head, leaving seven locks snaking down.
In each ivory dish, she mixed oils of hyacinth and myrrh with powders ground from stones of different hues, then painted herself all over: white gypsum on her face and body, red ochre on her palms and the soles of her feet. There. That was for the earth of Keftiu.
For the Sea, she donned Yassassara’s heavy skirt of Keftian purple and her tight, open-breasted bodice. She tied her waist with the sacred knot of Sea silk, spun from the red-gold filaments of giant mussels. She sprinkled her robes with oil of Sea lily, and tried not to think about why her bodice bared the heart: to take the knife.
For the sky, she put on anklets, earrings, and wrist-cuffs incised with sacred birds. With trembling hands, she placed her mother’s great collar of the Sun about her neck, where it lay heavy and chill against her flesh.
Already the gypsum was stiffening on her face, and when she touched her cheek, she couldn’t feel her scar. The earth of Keftiu had hidden it and rendered her perfect, as befitted a vessel for the Goddess.
From downstairs came a muffled squawk that she recognized as Echo—followed by Hylas’ voice, sounding annoyed. She shut her eyes. Don’t think about them. He’ll look after Echo. He’ll teach her to hunt.
Taking a brush made of the tip of a squirrel’s tail and trying not to meet her gaze in her mother’s bronze mirror, she painted her eyelids with henna and poppy juice—so that she might see with the eyes of the Goddess. She painted the tips of her ears red—that she might hear with the ears of the Goddess, and her lips—that she might speak with the voice of the Goddess.
She hesitated. Only one thing missing now.
The ebony box lay open to reveal the knife. It was silver, the blade enamelled with a blue dolphin leaping over black waves. Pirra didn’t want to touch it. When she did, she would be ready: to descend to the Hall of Whispers and twine the sacred snakes about her arms, and wake the gods of the underworld . . . r />
To cross the Great Court and climb to the Upper Chamber and burn frankincense for the gods of the sky . . .
Last of all, to blow the alabaster conch shell and beg the Goddess to bring back the Sun: to raise the knife and complete the Mystery . . .
Footsteps echoed as Hylas came running upstairs.
Pirra took the knife and slid it into the gilded sheath at her hip. Make him pass without stopping. Don’t let me see him, or I won’t have the strength to go through with this.
He stopped outside the double doors. They creaked as he pushed them open.
“Hylas don’t—” she said over her shoulder.
It wasn’t Hylas.
It was Telamon.
28
For a heartbeat, Telamon thought one of the painted goddesses had stepped down from the walls.
Then he saw that it was Pirra—and yet not Pirra: an alien priestess in a tight open-breasted bodice and flowing skirts the color of crushed grapes. Gold snakes coiled in her hair, and her flesh glittered eerily white. Her black eyes regarded him coldly, without fear. He didn’t dare touch her. And he knew that she knew it too.
“You don’t belong here,” she said levelly. “Get out while you still can.”
The power in her voice made his skin prickle. “I came for what’s mine,” he croaked. “Give me the dagger.”
She spread her hands, and from her skirts rose a dizzying fragrance. “I don’t have it,” she said.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care. Get out while you can. Crow.”
He bridled. “I’m the grandson of Koronos, my blood’s as good as yours.”
Her red lips curved in a smile that made his face burn. “You’re an Akean,” she said. “We Keftians were pouring libations in the Great Court when you were still living in caves.”
“Hylas is Akean too,” he said.
“And isn’t it odd? He’s a goatherd, you’re a chieftain’s son—and yet he’s all that’s best in Akea, and you’re all that’s worst.” Her glance flicked to his wrist, where her sealstone hung beside his; then to the gold plaques on his belt, which had once been hers. “You Crows know how to chop things up, but you can’t create.”