The silence after she’d gone was deafening.
Wincing, Hylas probed his ribs. Sore, but not broken. Havoc had sheathed her claws. If she hadn’t, she would have ripped him open from heart to hip.
Dazed and shaken, Hylas crawled to the mouth of the cave. He could see no sign of Havoc on the slope, apart from her blood-spattered trail disappearing into the trees. Would her wound heal? Would she understand that he’d done it to help her?
As his heartbeats slowed, he realized that he was still clutching the arrow.
He blinked at it. The arrowhead was shaped like a poplar leaf, and made of black obsidian.
His blood roared in his ears. Obsidian, like the arrowhead he had once dug out of his arm.
This could only mean one thing.
Crows.
15
From the lookout post on the wall, Pirra caught movement farther down the mountain. There among the pines: black cloaks and bronze spears. Crows.
Her mind darted in panic. They had tracked her here and were coming for the dagger. They would force their way in, and when they discovered that she didn’t have it, they would torture her till she told them where it was.
Unless—unless they thought she had gone.
Crouching behind the juniper tree, she tore off her belt, leaned over the precipice, and tossed it onto a thorn bush. The lambskin snagged, as she’d hoped it would. Maybe the Crows would think she’d fallen.
Or maybe they would see through the trick in a heartbeat, and ransack Taka Zimi.
Scrambling down into the courtyard, she raced unsteadily for the sanctuary. She halted on the steps, straining to hear over the noise of the stream and her own panting breath.
She caught the distant crunch of boots in snow. Already?
She glanced over her shoulder. No no no. Her tracks cut across the courtyard like an arrow, pointing to where she’d gone. Biting her lips, she flew down and swept the snow with her cloak.
Harsh cries of men beyond the walls, a savage pounding at the gates. Pirra couldn’t move, couldn’t take her eyes from the crossbeam. It held—but it wouldn’t keep them out for long.
Abruptly, the noises ceased. The silence was terrible. Then something heavy struck the top of the wall. Pirra’s heart jerked. They had flung a rope around one of the bull’s horns. Any moment now, a warrior would appear at the top and see her.
Nowhere to hide in her chamber. She darted for Silea’s, kicked aside the mat, and yanked open the hatch to the cellar.
Your tracks! Again she retraced her steps, wiping her wet boot-prints off the stones. Then she half fell, half slid down the ladder into the cellar and paused at the bottom to listen.
Nothing. But she pictured warriors swarming over the walls, then lifting the crossbeam and letting in a black flood of Crows.
Soundlessly she lowered the hatch, struggling to keep hold of a corner of the mat, in a desperate attempt to conceal her hiding place. The darkness was so thick she couldn’t see her hand before her face, but she found a gap behind an oil jar and squeezed behind it.
She smelled wet earth and heard the gurgle of the stream. Icy air blew through the hole she’d pecked away at over the winter. Waste of time. Earlier, when she’d realized that she’d been left for dead, she’d come down here and tried to enlarge it. She’d been so weak from the fever that she’d had to stop and crawl back to her bed to rest.
“Search everywhere, leave nothing intact,” shouted a harsh voice that was dreadfully familiar.
Pirra’s mind flew to last summer, when she’d faced Kreon in his stronghold. She remembered his greasy warrior braids and his massive fist crushing a harmless grass snake and flinging it writhing on the fire . . .
Clutching her sealstone, she tried to feel its tiny falcon. Her fingers were shaking too hard, she couldn’t make it out.
As Telamon stood in the courtyard watching his men search the guardhouse, a falcon lit onto a juniper tree on the wall, uttering shrill cries of alarm.
The men stared at it. Kreon narrowed his eyes and fingered the bow slung over his shoulder. “A falcon,” he muttered. “What does that mean?”
“It means she’s here,” said Telamon. “There’s a falcon on her sealstone. It won’t be long now.”
Ilarkos ran over to them. “We found this,” he panted, “snagged in a bush on the edge of that precipice.”
Telamon took it without a word. It was a lambskin belt, intricately braided and gilded, as befitted Yassassara’s daughter.
“She could have fallen,” said Ilarkos. “Or jumped—”
“Or it’s a trick,” cut in Kreon.
Again the falcon uttered its eck-eck cries. Ilarkos cast it an uneasy glance. “Keftian magic is strong, my lord. They say their priestesses can turn themselves into birds . . .”
“She’s not a priestess,” Telamon said coldly as he wound the belt around his wrist. “She’s just a girl.”
“We’ve still got to find her,” growled Kreon. “I’ll take some men and search the slopes.”
Telamon nodded. “I’ll stay here and make sure they turn over every stone in this sanctuary. Don’t worry, Uncle. We’ll find her and we’ll find the dagger.”
“Let’s hope so,” Kreon said grimly.
But it wasn’t only Ilarkos who was wary of Keftian magic; Telamon was annoyed to see that his men hadn’t dared approach the sacred buildings.
To show them he wasn’t afraid, he took the steps two at a time. He hesitated. Someone had chalked a Plague mark on the first door. If he entered that room, he might catch the Plague.
That’s what the men are for, he told himself. I’m a leader. Leaders don’t risk their lives for something like this.
Swiftly, he rubbed off the mark with his sleeve, then called to his men to search the room. The remaining doors were unmarked; he would deal with those himself.
As he entered the first, he reflected that something about that belt didn’t feel right. Pirra hadn’t jumped or fallen down that precipice. She was still here.
Pirra heard a man stride into the room above her head—and shrank deeper behind the oil jar.
A deafening crash made her start, and she nearly knocked over the jar. Silently, she begged the Goddess to stop the Crows from spotting the hatch.
More crashes and thuds. It sounded as if they were overturning Silea’s bed and smashing pots, lamps, everything. And still the hatch remained shut. Perhaps Silea’s bed had fallen across it, hiding it from view.
Dust sifted onto Pirra’s face, and she fought the urge to cough.
“I know you’re here,” said a voice above her, terrifyingly close.
She stopped breathing. She knew that voice.
“If you come out of your own accord,” said Telamon, “we won’t hurt you. I give you my word.”
To her horror, she felt the beginnings of a sneeze. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she squeezed the bridge of her nose.
No sound from above. Telamon was listening.
The sneeze subsided. Shakily, she took away her hand. Her sweaty fingers found the sealstone at her wrist, and as she clutched the amethyst falcon, she prayed to the Goddess. Hide me please please . . .
The noise of running feet, and now another man was talking in an urgent murmur that she couldn’t make out.
“Good,” snapped Telamon. “Go and tell the lord Kreon.”
Pirra’s grip tightened on her sealstone. The tiny falcon dug into her palm.
“Pirra,” said Telamon calmly. “I know you’re here. My men searched your room. Your bed is still warm.”
Riding the Wind, the falcon glanced down at the humans crawling like ants all over the eyrie. She couldn’t see the girl, but she knew she was in trouble; she felt her call.
To get a closer look, the falcon tilted one wing and swooped toward the biggest of the humans. He was
huge and lumbering, with weird black wings hanging limp and flightless down his back, like a crow’s, only without the purple and green. She caught his bitter stink and sensed his rage—and also his fear.
He seemed to be frightened of her. As she swept over his head, he ducked. The falcon was astonished. Did he imagine she was stupid enough to hit him? He was enormous; she’d rather crash into a boulder. But the human didn’t seem to realize that, and this gave the falcon an idea.
When she swooped again, the human bent back a stick and sent another stick wobbling through the air toward her. This stick was so ridiculously slow that she dodged it with scornful ease. Did he think he could hit a falcon with that?
Letting the Wind carry her out of reach, she scanned the mountainside. She saw more crow-men floundering in the snow below the eyrie. She caught the purple flash of a weasel near the rainbow torrent of the waterfall. But where was the girl?
At that moment, the falcon spotted movement in the bushes below the waterfall. It was that boy again, the one who’d watched her failing to kill a crow.
The falcon flew nearer.
This boy wasn’t one of the crow-men. He smelled of the forest, and he puzzled her, because unlike all the other humans the falcon had ever seen, his hair wasn’t black; it was dark gold with flashes of red, like an eagle.
From his hiding place below the waterfall, Hylas watched in horror as the Crows ransacked Taka Zimi: hauling chests onto the steps and hacking them to pieces with axes, spearing mattresses and smashing stools, pots, lamps.
He could see no sign of Pirra, and it flashed across his mind that such savagery might mean that they hadn’t found her, and were venting their rage.
Suddenly he caught movement above, and a bird swept overhead. It was that falcon again, the young one he’d seen being mobbed by crows. Puzzled, he watched her wheeling over Taka Zimi, shrieking her alarm call at the warriors.
This had to be a sign. She’s still here, the bird’s shrill cries seemed to be saying. She needs your help.
At least—Hylas thought that was what it meant. If he was wrong, he was about to risk his life for nothing.
From his hiding place, the stream tumbled down a scree slope dotted with juniper bushes, and rushed past a corner of the sanctuary. There wasn’t much cover, although at least the water might mask the sound of his approach.
And then what? Those walls were unclimbable, and the whole place was crawling with Crows.
As Hylas hesitated, he caught a bitter tang on the wind, and his belly tightened. Black smoke was rising from the roof of the sanctuary, and orange flames were flaring in the thatch.
If Pirra was inside, her time was running out.
The Crows were setting Taka Zimi on fire.
16
The crackle of flames grew louder, and smoke seeped into the cellar. Pirra’s heart hammered in her chest. If she stayed down here, she would die.
The hatch above her head felt hot, and when she pushed, it didn’t budge. She pushed harder. No use. She fought the urge to scream. She’d prayed to the Goddess to hide her—but whatever concealed the hatch was now shutting her in.
“Pirra, it’s over!” Telamon’s voice was muffled; he must have fled to the courtyard. “Tell me where you are and I’ll save you!”
Pirra pictured him standing triumphant in the snow—and her panic turned to cold hard rage. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Telamon? Then you could show me off as your captive and make all Keftiu bow before you. Well, I’m not some weasel in a hole, I’m the daughter of Yassassara—and I beg no man for help.
“Pirra, come out!” yelled Telamon. “It’s not worth dying!”
Gritting her teeth, Pirra groped for the hammer and wedge she’d hidden near the water pipe. She would make one last attempt to dig herself out. She’d rather die trying than give in to the Crows.
The wedge was where she’d left it, stuck in the joint between two stones edging the hole. She hit the wedge as hard as she could, and one of the stones rocked. She struck again and again—kicked, pulled, hammered. Couldn’t work it free.
“Pirra, this is madness!” shouted Telamon.
With rising panic, she kept going. Suddenly the stone moved by itself. Then someone yanked it out, a hand reached through and grabbed her wrist, and she heard a hoarse whisper. “Pirra! It’s me!”
To Hylas’ relief, Pirra didn’t waste an instant asking how he’d found her. The Crows might appear at any moment.
The first stone had doubled the size of the hole, which made it easier to get at the next. In frantic silence they attacked it together, Hylas digging and levering with a stick, Pirra hammering from inside. At last the stone jolted free. With both feet, Hylas kicked in another one—and before he could help her, she’d wriggled through.
Seizing her hand, he half dragged her up the slope. The wind helped, hiding them in choking smoke as they scrambled from bush to bush. But it would hide the Crows too.
At last they reached the boulders below the waterfall, where Hylas had hidden to spy out the sanctuary. Pirra leaned against a rock, bent double, with her hands on her knees. For the first time, he got a good look at her. He was shocked. Her face was gray and painfully thin, with dark-blue shadows under her eyes. She didn’t look strong enough to make it up to the ridge, let alone trek across a mountain.
“Are you all right?” he panted.
“No,” she snapped, suddenly a lot more like herself. “I’ve had fever, I’m weak as a cat. And I’ve lost my sealstone,” she added, staring in horror at a bloody scratch on her wrist.
He snorted. “Well, you can’t go back for it now.”
“I know that,” she retorted.
He flashed her a grin—which she didn’t return. It was taking all her resolve just to stay standing.
Below them, the roof of Taka Zimi collapsed with a crash, and orange flames shot skyward. Through the smoke, Hylas glimpsed warriors searching the ground near the walls. Soon they would find Pirra’s escape hole and pick up their trail.
Hylas thought fast. Returning the way he’d come would mean a long, steep climb past the waterfall and onto the ridge. Even if Pirra managed it, she’d never outrun the Crows. There had to be another way . . .
“Let’s go,” he said. “If we head down the other side of this slope, we’ll come to a gorge. There’s a bridge. When we’re across, we’ll cut it; that’ll give us a good day’s lead.”
Under cover of the smoke, they started off, stumbling between the pines toward where Hylas reckoned the gorge must be—although in this smoke, it was hard to tell. Trees and boulders loomed out of the haze, but no Crow warriors. Which didn’t mean they weren’t close behind.
To his relief, the pines thinned—and there was the gorge, with the bridge just a few paces away.
“That’s not a bridge,” panted Pirra, “that’s a rope!”
“It’s a bridge,” said Hylas. “One for the feet, two for the hands. But we need to go barefoot.” Already he was yanking off his boots and tying them around his neck.
“I can’t do it,” she said. “I—”
“You can. Quick, take off your boots and tie them round your neck.”
After an instant’s hesitation, she did, although he could see that she didn’t think she’d make it across.
“The trick is to keep moving,” he told her, “but don’t rush and don’t look down.”
The “bridge” was braided rawhide, lashed on this side to three wind-battered pines and on the other to a clump of sturdy oaks. It was maybe twenty paces long, and the drop to the bottom was stomach-churning. One wrong move and they’d be splattered all over the rocks.
“Will it take both our weights?” muttered Pirra.
“Yes,” said Hylas, although he was far from sure. Blessing Periphas for his gift of rope, he tied one end around his waist and the other around Pirra’s, leaving a
couple of arm-spans’ slack between, so they could move independently.
Pirra was shaking her head. “If we’re tied together and I fall, I’ll take you with me.”
“No you won’t, I’ll hang on somehow.”
To prevent further protest, he grasped both hand ropes at shoulder height and stepped onto the footrope. All three were strung so taut that they barely sagged: thank the gods that these Keftians knew what they were doing.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he said over his shoulder, “and don’t look down.”
The bridge held firm, but swayed alarmingly in the wind gusting up from below, and behind him Pirra wobbled so badly that she nearly tipped them both upside down. Somehow, they managed to keep going, and the oaks on the other side drew nearer.
Once, Hylas glanced around. Pirra’s face was set, and she was staring fixedly over his shoulder. He didn’t speak in case he put her off.
They were a few paces from safety when shouts rang out behind, and an arrow hissed past Hylas’ ear. His mind reeled. High above the gorge, they were easy targets. Or maybe the Crows would cut the ropes and send them plummeting to their deaths.
The same thought had occurred to Pirra; the rope around his waist jerked as she halted, and he fought to stay upright. “Keep moving!” he told her. “We’re nearly there!”
“It’s no use running, Hylas!” shouted a voice behind him.
Now it was Hylas who lurched. That voice was Telamon’s.
Over Pirra’s head, Hylas glimpsed his erstwhile friend at the edge of the gorge, nocking another arrow to his bow. Warriors ran up to support him. Hylas quickened his pace, hating the fact that Pirra was behind him and he could do nothing to shield her from their arrows.
One struck an oak directly ahead; more bounced off the rocks. Hylas leaped for solid ground—staggered—then grabbed a branch of the oak and spun around to hold Pirra if she fell.