At the same moment, Hylas heard the spear hissing toward him, and threw himself sideways. Again Kreon lunged, but this time the spear faltered and Kreon screamed, a horrible gurgling cry as the bull’s horn pierced his back and burst through his breastplate. The great beast tossed him high. Still screaming and spraying blood, Kreon flew over its back in grisly imitation of a bull-leaper, and hit the stones with a crack. The bull swung around and gored him again, stabbing and trampling until all that remained was a bloody horror, and the son of Koronos had been obliterated by the savage guardian of the land he had dared to invade.
Shielding his eyes from the glare, Hylas watched the brightness leave the girl on the balcony. She was Pirra again, blinking and looking about as if she’d just woken up.
He saw the bull swing around with a snort and trot off, leaving the trampled remains in a spreading pool of blood.
Then, from the corner of his eye, Hylas glimpsed shadowy forms emerging from doorways in a seething black cloud of Plague. Silently, the ghosts converged on Kreon’s corpse and dipped in their fingers and tasted his blood. Then a wind came whistling across the Great Court and blew away the Plague. Hylas sensed that the ghosts were no longer angry and lost, and with a sigh they too blew away, up to their long rest on the Ridge of the Dead.
Hylas thought of the ghostly children on the coast. Maybe they were no longer lost, and had found their dead parents; and maybe the other ghosts he’d seen on his wanderings were also finding peace in the tombs of their ancestors—for although the Sun hadn’t returned and the Great Cloud hung as heavy as ever, the gods had blown away the Plague.
But now as he stood swaying on the stones, he sensed one last ghost moving toward him. She felt different from the others: a tall woman with long hair, who wasn’t Keftian, but Akean—and she hadn’t died of Plague. There was something incredibly familiar about her, something that pierced his heart with longing.
As she drew closer, Hylas shut his eyes and felt her palm against his cheek, cool and light as a moth’s wing. He heard her misty whisper in his ear. Hylas . . . Your sister lives . . . Find her . . . Forgive me . . . Forgive your father . . . Forgive . . .
With a cry, Hylas reached out to clutch his mother’s hand, but his fingers grasped empty air. He ran after her, and she smiled at him over her shoulder; then a breeze came moaning over the stones and she faded to nothing before his eyes.
There was a lump in his chest. It hurt so much that he gasped and sank to his knees, fighting tears.
It took him a while to notice that the bull was trotting toward him. He saw its scarlet horns and the threatening tilt of its head; but he felt no fear, only a vast weariness.
The bull halted ten paces from him and pawed the stones.
“I c-can’t fight you anymore,” stammered Hylas.
As he knelt before the great beast, a golden blur darted between them—and there was Havoc, snarling at the bull.
Almost gratefully, the bull decided it had had enough, and swung around and plodded off, down the ramp and into the peaceful gloom of the understory. Then Havoc shook herself and bounded over to Hylas and gave his face a rasping lick.
He couldn’t hold it back any longer. Flinging his arms around the lion cub’s neck, he burst into painful, wrenching sobs for the mother he had never known, but who he now knew was dead and gone forever, and for the dream that he’d clung to all his life: That someday, he and Issi and their mother would all be together.
Pirra felt the wind in her face and saw the snakes drop from her arms and slither off to explore Kunisu.
She found that she was standing on the West Balcony, high above the Great Court. She felt empty and weak, with a pounding pain in her head. The sky was still ashen; the Sun had not returned. Dimly, Pirra remembered Echo striking the knife from her hand. The Goddess had sent Her creature to avert the sacrifice. But why? All Pirra knew was that Echo was perched on her shoulder, and she was alive, and so was Hylas.
He sat with his back against the sacred tree, with Havoc beside him and the double axe at his feet. His leather kilt was dusty, his bare chest scraped and bloodied. As she watched, the wind blew back his yellow hair, and for a moment he reminded her of the god of the hunt in the Hall of Whispers. Then it passed, and he was a boy again, staring fixedly ahead.
Some time later, Pirra found her way down to the Great Court. The smell of blood hung in the air, and she tried not to look at the horror on the stones.
Havoc watched Echo swoop down to perch in the sacred tree, but Hylas stared unseeingly ahead. As Pirra drew closer, she was startled to see that his cheeks were wet with tears.
Havoc came and rubbed against her thigh. The cub’s furry warmth made Pirra feel more and more herself. She had failed to complete the Mystery, but she had tried. Sadly, she wondered if her mother knew.
Hylas became aware of her, and sniffed and wiped his face on the back of his hand. His eyelashes were spiky, his tawny eyes glassy with tears.
Pushing Havoc gently away, Pirra knelt and put her hand on his shoulder and said his name.
35
She sounded like Pirra, but she had the eerily perfect face of the Goddess. Hylas was too dazed to take in what she was saying.
Now she was gripping his hand in hers and leading him along passages, with Havoc running behind.
“The Plague’s gone,” he mumbled. “The gods blew it away.”
“But I couldn’t complete the Mystery,” she said. “I couldn’t bring back the Sun.”
After many twists and turns, they reached a shadowy space where she halted, staring at a smear of blood on the floor. “He’s gone. Telamon’s gone.”
“Telamon?” cried Hylas.
“He fell. I thought he was dead, but he’s gone.”
With a jolt, Hylas’ wits returned. “He could be anywhere, and I’ve left my weapons in the Great Court, we’ve got to get out of here!”
“That’s what I’ve been saying!” said Pirra.
Back in her room, Hylas ignored the chaos of trampled food and well-chewed sheepskins and started gathering their gear, while Pirra hurriedly flung on her own clothes and washed her face, completing the change from goddess to girl.
“You knew Telamon once,” she said, cramming her things in a calfskin bag. “What will he do now?”
“He won’t leave Kreon’s body behind, his clan worships their ancestors. When he’s dealt with that, he’ll come after us, no matter how badly he’s hurt.”
She paused. “He thinks I have the dagger.”
The dagger. Hylas had forgotten it, but now his thoughts flew to Userref. Keftiu was vast. How would they ever find him?
The wind was getting up, moaning over the roofs and howling through passages. Suddenly, a savage gust blew aside the door-hanging. Pirra’s eyes widened. “It sounds angry.”
Hylas slung his cloak about him and shouldered his gear. “Come on. Dusk soon, and there’s a storm on the way.”
A gust of wind shook the tent, and the slave bandaging Telamon’s head cringed.
“Storm on the way,” said Ilarkos.
Telamon gave him a cold stare. “So let me be clear. We sent you up that mountain with half our men to catch whoever was up there—and you failed.”
“They slipped away in the dark—”
“Why didn’t you come and help us in the House of the Goddess?”
“We’ve only just made it back to camp!”
“Excuses!” Telamon barked at the slave, who refilled his wine cup.
Haggard with fatigue, Ilarkos watched thirstily. “We saw peasants on the move, my lord. They’re returning to their villages, the priests say the Plague’s gone. Among them I saw that Egyptian who was her slave. His face was dead white, it was horrible, like a ghost—”
“Ghosts!” sneered Telamon. He drained his cup. Maybe wine would ease the pain in his head.
&nb
sp; He had a hazy memory of coming to his senses in a dark corner of that dreadful place and staggering around seeking a way out, then finding himself at a window on an upper story overlooking a vast open court. He’d seen Pirra on a balcony, her white arms raised like a goddess; a bull trampling Kreon’s corpse; and a lion leaping to Hylas’ defense.
Telamon ground his teeth. Lions were for chieftains, not goatherds; there were lions painted above the gates of his grandfather’s citadel at Mycenae. It’s all wrong, he thought savagely. Why Hylas and not me?
The wind roared in the pines and shook the tent. His men were huddled around their fires, shocked by their leader’s ghastly death. He should go and rally them, but he felt too angry and bitter to try.
“My lord,” said Ilarkos, “what are your orders? Do we return to Mycenae? These Keftians are no fighters, but if they turn on us, we’ll be hopelessly outnumbered.”
Telamon went still. For the first time, Ilarkos had asked him for orders. His anger vanished. Everything made sense. He had prayed for a chance to prove himself leader, and the gods had heard him. They had killed Kreon—so that he, Telamon, might lead. He would find the dagger and restore it to Mycenae. It was his destiny.
And maybe Pirra had told the truth when she said she didn’t have the dagger. Maybe she’d sent it away.
Flinging aside his cup, Telamon rose. “We will set sail for Mycenae, but not yet.”
“My lord?”
“At first light, the men will retrieve my uncle’s remains and burn them with all honor, as befits a son of Koronos. Then we go after the Egyptian. That was no ghost you saw. He’s alive and he has the dagger, or he knows where she hid it. Either way, we don’t leave Keftiu without him.”
Userref had shaved off his eyebrows in mourning and whitened his face with lime. Now, as lightning flared and rain hammered down, he kneeled on the windswept hillside and shouted prayers to his gods. “Auset, Protectress of the Dead, watch over she whom I loved as a little sister! Heru, Lord of Light, transform her spirit into a falcon, for her heart is righteous in the great balance!”
But he knew it was hopeless. Why should the gods of Egypt hear him, when Pirra had been a barbarian?
Someone grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet. “What are you doing?” yelled a voice in Akean. “Don’t you know the Crows are after you?”
The stranger was strong, dragging Userref downhill and deep into the woods, where he found an abandoned farmhouse hidden in a thicket, kicked open the door, flung Userref inside, and slammed it shut behind him. “What were you doing? D’you want them to kill you?”
Userref backed away, clutching his precious bundle. “If they did, I’d deserve it for letting her die!”
The stranger snorted. “Then why’d you paint crows on the soles of your boots? I thought Egyptians did that to curse their enemies!”
Userref was startled. Who was this man, that he knew the ways of Egypt?
The stranger was tall and broad-shouldered, with the long dark hair and uncouth beard of an Akean. He looked poor, but the fierce intelligence in his light-gray eyes warned Userref that he was no ordinary wanderer.
Alarmed, he watched the stranger pull a wineskin from the sack on his shoulder and cut a hunk of grimy cheese with a large bronze knife. “So why are they after you?” he said with his mouth full.
“My mistress fell ill,” Userref said guardedly. “I went to fetch dittany. When I returned, I found a smoking ruin. Later I saw their leader with her sealstone on his wrist . . .” He choked. “She died by fire, so her spirit is incomplete and she can never gain eternal life!”
Thunder shook the farmhouse, and both men ducked.
“But Keftians have their own gods to look after their souls,” said the stranger.
Userref wished he could believe that. But if only Egyptians knew how to attain eternal life, didn’t that condemn all barbarians to oblivion? All he knew was that his little sister was dead, and he would never see her again.
“You still haven’t told me why the Crows are after you,” said the stranger.
“You’re right, I haven’t,” Userref said politely. Slipping his hand inside his sack, he touched the snakeskin bundle that hid the dagger of Koronos. “Why did you help me?”
The Akean shrugged. “The Crows are my enemies. I saw them hunting you. And maybe—because you’re a long way from home, and so am I . . . You must miss the land of the Great River,” he added in Egyptian.
Userref’s eyes stung. It was years since he’d heard it spoken by anyone but Pirra.
Then he had an alarming thought. Why would some ragged Akean cross his path, speaking Egyptian? Was this man a god in disguise? “Wh-who are you?” he faltered. “What do you seek?”
“Well, I wasn’t seeking you. Let’s just say I’m looking for some people I used to know who hate the Crows as much as I do. What about you? Where are you heading?”
Userref hesitated. He’d sworn to Pirra that he would keep the dagger safe until he found a way for a god to destroy it. But how could he, when he was an Egyptian, to whom the gods of Keftiu wouldn’t listen?
If this man was a god, then he could destroy the dagger. But if he wasn’t? The risk was too great. “I don’t know,” he said. “Where do you think I should go?”
The stranger who might be a god took a pull at the wineskin. “Go home.”
Userref stared at him. “I can’t.”
“Why not? Your mistress is dead. Why stay on Keftiu?”
Hope leaped as Userref pictured the sacred papyrus waving on the banks of Iteru, and his long-lost family . . . And surely in Egypt he would find a way to honor Pirra’s last wish.
Again, the stranger spoke in Egyptian. “Whatever you decide, my friend, may you have long life and the sight of the Sun, and find your way to eternal peace on the horizon.”
Userref bowed low, in case this man really was a god, then returned the traditional blessing: “And may your name live forever in eternity. I shall do as you say.”
36
Clutching her sodden cloak about her face to hide her scar, Pirra hurried after Hylas, who’d gone ahead to find Havoc. For two days they’d been desperately seeking Userref while the storm continued to rage—but still no sign of him.
Rounding a bend, she found Hylas confronting a gang of fishermen with three-pronged spears and weird purple skin. A flock of soggy sheep huddled in a pen adjoining a tumbledown farmhouse, and trapped between that and the pen was Havoc: wet, snarling, and terrified.
“Leave her alone!” shouted Hylas, grabbing one of the spear shafts.
“Don’t you dare hurt her!” screamed Pirra.
“That thing’s after our sheep!” yelled a fisherman.
Everyone shouted at once. Havoc seized her chance and shot off into the woods. “What’s going on?” bellowed a voice.
At the door of the farmhouse Pirra saw a mountainous old woman swathed in what seemed to be a wet leather tent. She had a face like a purple sponge and only one eye, which lurched from Pirra to Hylas—and glared at him. “You!” she rasped.
“Who’s she?” said Gorgo, jerking her head at Pirra.
“Just some girl,” said Hylas.
Gorgo snorted, and he sensed that she saw through Pirra’s disguise, but didn’t care.
They were all in the farmhouse, including Gorgo’s elderly dog and the sheep, and her sons were busy ransacking the place. The air was a fug of wet livestock and dye-workers’ stink of urine and rotting fish.
“Do you know this woman?” whispered Pirra beside him.
“I met her when I first got to Keftiu,” he hissed.
“Is this their farm?”
“No, but I wouldn’t point that out!” Then to Gorgo, “Are we prisoners?”
Gorgo ignored that. “A few nights ago,” she said accusingly, “we hear of Crows on Setoya. Then th
is storm washes away the Plague, so we come to see what we can find. Suddenly there’s a lion attacking our sheep—and now you! You tell me what’s going on!”
“We’re hiding from the Crows,” said Hylas, “and we’re looking for—”
“Crows are gone,” snapped Gorgo. “Man called Deukaryo ganged up with a whole crowd of farmers, forced them at spear point onto a fishing boat.” Her laugh shook her vast bulk. “Some lad on board with a bandaged head yelling about the Angry Ones. They’ll not be back to Keftiu in a hurry.”
A dreadful thought occurred to Hylas. Maybe the Crows had found Userref; maybe Telamon had the dagger.
Pirra had thought of that too. “You’ve got to let us go!” she cried. “We’re looking for an Egyptian, we have to find him! Did the Crows catch him?”
Thunder shook the farmhouse. “You’re not going anywhere in this,” growled Gorgo.
Pirra was curled up asleep and Gorgo sat snoring by the fire with her dog at her feet. Hylas listened to the creak of the rafters and wondered if the same storm was battering Messenia—and if Issi was sheltering somewhere, thinking of her brother.
Ever since Kunisu, his mother’s death had weighed on his heart like a stone. He knew Pirra was wondering what was wrong, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her.
And he was worried about Havoc. Whether or not they found Userref, they couldn’t stay on Keftiu, or someone would recognize Pirra and drag her back to Kunisu; but what about Havoc?
He was roused by the smell of singed fur: The dog’s rump was beginning to scorch. Quietly, Hylas shifted its bottom, and it thumped its tail in its sleep.
“You’re a long way from Mount Lykas, aren’t you, lad?” rasped Gorgo.
He met her cloudy eye. “I never told you I was from there.”
“You didn’t need to. I knew your mother.”
He went still. “My mother’s dead. Her ghost came to me in the Great Court at Kunisu. How did you know her?”