“We know how to conquer,” he retorted. “You Keftians can’t even defend yourselves! It only took two of my men to scale the wall and open the gates.”
If she was dismayed, she hid it well. “Poor Telamon,” she said with mock pity. “Do you imagine that you can conquer us with warriors? Kunisu has stood since the dawn of time! We have other ways of defending ourselves. Leave now, before you find out what they are.”
His courage wavered. They’d found it suspiciously easy to break into the House of the Goddess, but once inside, they’d been unnerved by its twisting passages and walls that turned out to be screens masking sudden lethal drops; and by the dreadful bellowing of some underground monster.
“It’s as if they don’t need to keep us out,” Kreon had muttered. “And now that we’re inside . . .” Soon after, Telamon had lost his way and found himself alone. Now that we’re inside . . .
From far off came shouts, the clash of weapons, then silence. Pirra gave a start. She recovered fast, but the spell was broken.
She’s no priestess, Telamon thought savagely. She’s just a frightened girl. “I’ve had enough of your tricks,” he snarled. “I want the dagger and I want Hylas, now!”
“No,” she said. But her shoulders were high, and he saw a vein beating in her throat.
“Why defend him?” he demanded. “What’s he to you?” He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her. Can’t you see that I’m better than him? Stronger, handsomer, richer! How dare you prefer him to me!
“It’s over, Pirra,” he said. “I’ve won. My men will search every corner till they find him. Give me the dagger and I won’t hurt you—but forget about Hylas. There’s nothing you can do for him now.”
Pirra forced herself to meet his gaze. Then, very deliberately, she turned her back on him.
She felt his eyes on her as she touched a reed to the brazier, then to the frankincense in the green glass bowl. Would he guess that she was playing for time—racking her brains for some means of escape, while straining her ears for some hint that Hylas had gotten away?
“Give me the dagger,” repeated Telamon.
As the frankincense caught, an idea came to her. It was horribly risky, but there was no other way. With the bowl in both hands, she faced him. “What will you do if I don’t?”
Telamon’s eyes narrowed. With his cloak flung back and his dagger in his fist, he looked terrifyingly strong. She would never outrun him, or get a chance to draw the silver knife at her hip. Her only weapon was his unease.
In the green glass bowl, flames licked the little crystalline lumps of the sacred resin, sending up twisting threads of sour black smoke. Pirra blew them out, and instantly the smoke turned white, as she’d known it would, and the chamber filled with the astonishing perfume of frankincense. “What will you do?” she repeated softly.
Telamon rearranged his fingers on his dagger. His face was flushed, and beads of sweat stood out on his upper lip.
Holding the bowl before her so that he saw her through the perfumed haze, Pirra backed deeper into the chamber.
He came after her. “Oh no, don’t think you can run away.”
“I’m not,” she replied. “You are in the forbidden chamber of the High Priestess. It’s you who should run away.”
By the brazier’s dying glow, she saw him take in the painted goddesses on the walls, making sacrifices and summoning hawks and lions to do their will. She took another step back. Behind her were three doorways, each hidden behind a hanging embroidered in poisonous greens and stinging yellows. All opened onto a dark windowless passage where gaps in the parapet showed glimpses of a shadowy corner of Kunisu, two stories below.
Telamon’s eyes darted in alarm from one door to the next.
“What’s behind these doors?” said Pirra in a low voice. “What Keftian magic lies in wait for the intruder?”
“You can’t frighten me,” he muttered.
She forced a smile. “But you are frightened. No man may enter here.” She passed the smoking bowl before his face, and he recoiled with a gasp. “Did you think we’d leave Kunisu unprotected?” she whispered. “The Goddess won’t forgive you for this!”
He lifted his chin. “I’m not afraid. Your Goddess has abandoned Keftiu. And I have the favor of the Angry Ones.”
“Then where are they? All Keftiu is covered in ash, and yet the Angry Ones are nowhere—because my mother banished them! Her magic is vastly stronger than your spirits!”
“Yassassara’s dead,” he said thickly.
“But her spells live on.” She wafted another gust of frankincense in his face, and as he drew back, she seized her chance and fled: through the middle doorway and into the dimness beyond.
With a shout Telamon came after her, as she’d hoped he would. Swiftly she side-stepped, but he blundered ahead, didn’t see the gap in the parapet—and stepped out onto empty air.
He made no sound as he fell, but she heard the thud as he hit the ground. Setting the bowl on the parapet, she leaned over.
Telamon sprawled on the stones below. He wasn’t moving. Pirra couldn’t tell if he was injured or dead. As she breathed in the frankincense, it seemed to cut her loose from herself, so that she felt neither guilt nor remorse. “I warned you,” she said.
Picking up the bowl, she returned to the chamber. She set the bowl on the table and took the silver pitcher her mother’s priests had put ready, and filled the obsidian goblet with poppy juice and pomegranate wine.
She drank. She was no longer Pirra. She was a vessel for the Shining One.
Lighting another rushlight, she opened the double doors and started for the Hall of Whispers, to begin the Mystery.
29
The boy, the girl, and even that wretched falcon had been swallowed by this great horned mountain—and only the lion cub was left outside.
She felt a bit battered after falling out of the tree, and she limped as she prowled the mountain’s feet. From somewhere within came the cries of that stupid bird. It sounded as if it was in trouble. Well, good. It wasn’t fair that the falcon was inside with the boy, just because she could fly.
Darkness gaped in the mountain’s flank, and the lion cub halted. She was back before those dreadful gaping jaws that had swallowed the boy and girl—and what was worse, they now reeked of the terrible men with the flying black hides who had killed her parents.
Flattening her ears, the cub hunkered down to think. No no no, she couldn’t go in there.
But the terrible men were hunting the boy.
In an agony of terror, the cub flexed her claws in and out. She couldn’t go in there, not even for him.
But he needed her.
The lion cub twitched her tail and tightened her haunches. Then she seized her courage in her jaws and darted inside.
The falcon was exhausted, frightened, and angry. It was her own fault that she’d gotten herself trapped.
After saving the girl from the bull, the falcon had flown off to find a roost in a nice dark corner of one of the caves. Some time later, she’d woken with a sense that the girl was in trouble again. The falcon didn’t know how she felt this, but she did, to the roots of her feathers.
So once again she’d sped through the narrow winding caves. She’d forgotten all about those giant cobwebs that spanned the caves—until it was too late, and she crashed into one.
The cobweb was tougher than it looked, and although the falcon pecked and lashed out with her talons, she couldn’t tear herself free. She’d been struggling for ages, but the more she fought, the more tangled up she became.
Now her wings were squeezed shut and she couldn’t move a claw. It was awful, like being back in the Egg.
It was awful inside the mountain.
The ground was menacingly smooth beneath the lion cub’s paws, and on either side of her rose strange threatening trees with very strai
ght trunks that she didn’t dare scratch.
At times, she blundered into giant cobwebs spanning the mouths of caves. They clung unpleasantly to her muzzle, and she had to claw herself free with both forepaws.
Worst of all, everywhere stank of the bad humans. The caves were so echoey that the cub couldn’t tell where they were, but she heard their yowls and the clash of their long shiny claws.
At last she caught the boy’s scent and followed it to a pile of dead sheep. She smelled that he’d curled up on them and had one of his endless sleeps, and this made her feel a bit braver.
Nosing a sheep, she was startled to find that it was nothing but pelt, with no meat inside. She ripped open the smallest, fattest sheep, and to her astonishment, it was full of feathers. What kind of sheep has feathers instead of guts?
Coughing and sneezing, the lion cub forgot about the empty sheep and padded into the next cave, which smelled strongly of the boy and the girl. They weren’t here now, but they’d left her some meat, so she settled down to eat, swiveling her ears for the least sound of the terrible men.
Somewhere not far off, that falcon was squawking again. Let her squawk. Hungrily, the lion cub gulped more meat.
The falcon struggled, but it was no use; the cobwebs held her fast—and now some earthbound monster was coming toward her.
Helpless as a sparrow, the falcon lay with her beak agape and her heart fluttering in her breast. She saw the enormous shadow drawing close. She heard harsh sawing breath.
A huge black nose nudged her roughly in the breast—and sniffed.
The lion cub sniffed the falcon and patted her with one forepaw.
The falcon hissed, but she couldn’t move: The giant cobweb held her fast. With her wings squeezed shut, she looked even punier than usual. The cub thought about eating her, but she was mostly feathers and wouldn’t make a mouthful. Besides, the lion cub was full, and feathers made her sneeze.
Again she patted the falcon, who glared at her as she swung back and forth in the cobweb. The cub did it again, but this time the cobweb snagged her claws, so she ripped them free, and the falcon fell to the ground with a thud.
Curious, the lion cub batted the bird between her forepaws. The falcon shrieked and lashed out with one foot, catching the lion cub a painful scratch on her pad.
The cub snarled. The falcon hissed.
Suddenly the lion cub heard men yowling, alarmingly close.
The falcon flew off. The cub fled in terror. The caves were so echoey that she couldn’t tell if the bad humans were ahead or behind. She wished she’d followed the falcon—at least then she wouldn’t be alone.
Where were the bad humans?
And where was the boy?
30
Echo swept past Hylas and he nearly fell off the ladder, which angered the wasps, who buzzed furiously around his head. One stung his ear and another his thumb. Clenching his jaw, he tied the cord around the wasps’ nest, then slid down the ladder, looped the cord at ankle height around the pillars on either side of the passage, and raced off. There. Another trap set.
As yet, he’d seen no sign of the Crows, but he knew it wouldn’t be long. Earlier, he’d peered out of a window and glimpsed a black swarm of them at the north gates. He’d counted twenty-two, including Telamon and Kreon. Twenty-two against one. He didn’t want to think about that.
If he’d been out in the wild, he would have made boulders into deadfalls and saplings into spring-loaded spikes. In here, his only plan was to frighten them off. In a workshop he’d thrown together a couple of lumpy wax figures, and sloshed water in powdered lime to make runny white paint; then he’d raced about, leaving the pus-eaters where they’d look most menacing, and marking doors with the white handprints of Plague.
If that didn’t work and it came to a fight, he was finished. All he had were axe, knife, and slingshot—with not enough shot, just a pouchful of big carnelian beads from a necklace of Pirra’s.
As he ran, he felt a stab of worry at leaving her alone. She was somewhere in the east of Kunisu, while he was in the west, with the Great Court between them. Although no one knew better how to hide in here than Pirra, if the Crows caught her, he wouldn’t even hear her scream.
Turning a corner, he started down a shadowy passage flanked by workshops. No handprints on the doors; he hadn’t set any traps here. He bumped into a brazier and sent it clattering, then tripped over a coil of rope. That’d come in handy; he slung it over his shoulder.
At the end of the passage, torchlight glimmered. Hylas crouched behind the brazier. Any moment now and Crow warriors would appear around the corner.
Torchlight glimmered at the other end too. The Crows were approaching the passage from both ends.
In panic, Hylas threw himself into the nearest workshop. Please please don’t let it be a dead end.
It was. No windows, no ceiling hatch, not even a drain to crawl into. Just a dim chamber cluttered with tools.
“Search every room!” shouted a man from one end of the passage. The crash of breaking pottery: The two parties of Crows were working their way toward each other, ransacking every workshop as they went. The one where Hylas hid was in the middle. It wouldn’t be long before they found him.
In panic, he cast about him. On a workbench he saw three of those weird giant eggs; no use to him.
The din was getting nearer.
He backed deeper into the gloom, and something jabbed his shoulder blade. It was one of those giant tusks; in fact, a whole wobbly stack of them.
The Crows were almost upon him.
In feverish haste, he tied a loop in one end of his rope and slung it over a tusk jutting from the middle of the stack; then, placing a giant egg on the floor to distract the Crows, he darted behind the workbench, gripping the other end of the rope in both hands.
An instant later, the room filled with the stench of sweat and the creak of rawhide armor. Torchlight slid across the floor toward him.
“Told you there’s no one here,” growled a man, shockingly close. “I say we get out before we catch Plague.”
“Those handprints were fresh, you idiot!” snapped another. “Who d’you think made them?”
“I don’t care! This whole place feels cursed, I’m getting out!”
Mutters of agreement from the others, but the one who’d noticed the paint didn’t back down. “You heard the orders,” he insisted, “check every cubit!”
The torchlight slid closer to Hylas’ foot. He fought the urge to recoil, knowing that the slightest move would betray him.
“What’s that?”
He froze.
“Looks like—a giant egg.”
“Don’t touch it, it’s cursed.”
“What’s that over there?”
The torchlight moved even closer. With a desperate prayer to the Lady of the Wild Things, Hylas yanked the rope as hard as he could. The pile of tusks tottered—and fell with a crash.
Torches went flying, men shouted and swore in the dark. Seizing his chance, Hylas scrambled past them and out the door.
The Crows recovered terrifyingly fast. As he sped down the passage, shouts rang out. “There he is!”
He hurtled around the bend, slipped on a rug, and staggered past a doorway flanked by two painted lions with wings. He’d seen them before: He’d set another trap somewhere close.
This time, he let the Crows catch a glimpse of him.
“That way!” one yelled.
They were so intent on catching him that they didn’t see the rope at ankle height. He heard the lead warriors go down in a clatter of weapons, then men howling in rage and pain as the wasps’ nest burst.
A swarm of furious wasps wouldn’t delay them for long. Hylas found a stairway that he recognized and sped up it, past a lumpy little pus-eater that glared at him from the bottom step with red carnelian eyes.
&
nbsp; He’d scarcely reached the dark at the top when warriors appeared at the foot. They saw the pus-eater and lurched to a halt.
“Told you this place is cursed,” panted one.
“Whatever you saw, it can’t have been human,” whispered another. “I’m getting out!”
This time, no one argued.
Shaking with relief, Hylas listened to them go. From a window on an upper gallery, he saw them streaming out of the gates. He counted nine, far better than he’d dared hope. Now the odds were only thirteen against one.
It was getting hotter. Yanking his jerkin over his head, he stuffed it behind a brazier and headed off.
Downstairs, he found himself in another endless passage, with giant earthenware jars standing sentinel between workshops along one side. All the doors except one bore his white handprints.
More torchlight and creaking armor. He darted into the one room that bore no handprint. This time, he wanted the Crows to give the Plague-marked workshops only a cursory look, and concentrate on his hiding place: It was his final trap. Either that, or it would be his tomb.
The room was dark, and full of an eye-watering stink. Dung crunched underfoot and he fought the urge to gag as he slipped behind the column by the door and climbed onto its base, so that his face was near the roof beams. They were thick with sleeping bats, hanging motionless. Across the room, he made out the pale rectangle of the opposite door, which earlier he’d left ajar, with a basket balanced on top.
“He went in there, I saw him,” a warrior said hoarsely.
Light glimmered in the workshop, but the bats slept on. Hylas watched in horrified fascination as warriors passed within touching distance of the column behind which he hid. He heard the hiss of their pine-pitch torches. He saw the sweat beading their muscles and the vicious gleam of spears. If they found him, he’d be skewered like a pike.