Hylas didn’t have time to change his mind. Suddenly they were sweeping around a bend and the plains were opening out before him: a vast, flat, forested land dotted with patches of golden barley and silver olive trees—and beyond that, frighteningly far away—mountains: peak upon peak, holding up the sky.
Hylas had never been so far east, and for a moment his spirit quailed. Mount Lykas was all he’d ever known: the peaks, the gorge, the village. He had only a hazy idea of what lay beyond.
He knew that Telamon’s father got his wealth from the rich crops of the plains, and that Lykonia was the southernmost chieftaincy in a vast land called Akea. He was vaguely aware that somewhere far away there were other Akean chieftaincies—Messenia, Arkadia, Mycenae—and that across the Sea lay distant lands peopled by monsters; but he’d never really thought about them. Until now. The outside world was unimaginably huge. It made him feel as insignificant as an ant, and as easily crushed.
They reached a stream overhung by giant reeds, and Telamon hauled the horses to a halt to let them drink. He and Hylas jumped down. Telamon slumped on a rock, groaning and kneading his shoulders. Even on the ground, Hylas still felt the swaying of the chariot. The reeds were three times the height of a man and gave good cover, but he didn’t like them. He pictured black warriors creeping up on him unawares.
Telamon took a calfhide bag from the chariot and tossed him a chunk of dried sheep’s liver and a cowhorn flask with a wooden stopper.
“What’s this?” said Hylas.
“Walnut juice. Your hair, Hylas. No one has yellow hair, you stand out like a beacon. You’ve got to look like everyone else or you’ll be caught.”
After gulping his meat, Hylas smeared the walnut juice on his hair, and it turned from the color of wet sand to a streaky dark brown.
“Better,” said Telamon. He went to spy out the land, while Hylas stayed with the horses.
The friendly one was called Smoke; the vicious one was Jinx. Smoke stood quietly with one hind hoof tilted, but Jinx snorted and tossed his head. He wasn’t as beautiful as Smoke—he had a bony nose and angry eyes—but Hylas guessed he was cleverer. It made sense to be angry. He probably hated having to pull a chariot.
Hylas told him so, and Jinx swiveled his ears to listen, then tried to bite his hand. Hylas grinned. “Trust no one. Clever horse.”
Just then, both horses pricked their ears and uttered piercing whinnies.
Answering whinnies in the distance.
Telamon came crashing through the reeds. “It’s them!” he panted. “Quick! There’s a trail up ahead!”
Hylas jumped into the chariot and reached down to give Telamon a hand up, but to his astonishment his friend tossed him the provisions and thrust the reins at him. “Go south,” he told Hylas. “Follow the river and find a boat—”
“What? But you’re coming too!”
“I’ll head them off in the wrong direction, then go over the pass and meet you the other side—”
“Telamon, I’m not leaving you!”
“You’ve got to, it’s your only chance!”
“I don’t care!”
“They’re not after me, they’re after you! Now go!”
5
The horses were unbelievably strong. It was all Hylas could do to hang on to the reins and stay in the chariot.
A glance over his shoulder told him this wasn’t going to work: He was trailing a cloud of dust a blind man could have followed. Then he saw a fork up ahead. The track on the right was wide enough to take the chariot, but the one on the left was narrow and plunged into reeds; he guessed it led to the river.
Tugging at the reins with all his might, he yanked the horses’ heads to one side and brought them to a squealing halt, then leaped down and started frantically unhitching Jinx. Jinx stamped and tried to bite, but somehow Hylas got him free of the yoke without tangling up the reins. That left Smoke hitched to the chariot. A slap on the rump sent him thundering down the wider trail with the chariot bouncing behind him. With luck the Crows would follow its dust, and only discover the trick when it was too late.
Hylas scrambled onto Jinx’s back, and the horse was so startled he shot off at a gallop. Hylas had ridden donkeys before, but never a horse—and Jinx hated being ridden. Clutching fistfuls of mane, Hylas clung on grimly. Reeds whipped his face and his food sack thumped against his back. Jinx tried to scrape him off under a willow. Hylas ducked, bashing his cheek on the horse’s bony withers.
After a battle that went on forever, Jinx jolted to a halt and refused to go on. With a snarl, Hylas slid off and hauled him down the riverbank to drink.
The reeds made a stifling green tunnel, and the rasp of the crickets was so loud that if the Crows came after him he’d never hear them. He was worried about Telamon. I’ll head them off in the wrong direction… How would he manage that without getting killed?
Watching Jinx munch giant fennel, Hylas realized he was ravenous. He’d left Telamon’s provisions in the chariot, but he still had his food sack. Grabbing olives and a hunk of cheese, he ate some and offered a bit to Jinx. The horse flattened his ears and bared his teeth.
His flanks were dark with sweat and crisscrossed with fine black scars. Hylas had scars too, from Neleos’ beatings. “Poor Jinx,” he said.
Jinx shot him a wary look.
Hylas put the cheese and a couple of olives on the ground. Jinx snuffled up the olives and stamped on the cheese.
Hylas moved to stroke the steaming neck. “You’re not so bad, are you? You just don’t like being beaten.”
Jinx reared, lashing out with his front hooves. Hylas jumped out of the way—the reins whipped through his hands—and Jinx went crashing off into the reeds.
Hylas raced after him, but Jinx was gone.
First Issi and Scram, then that dog, then Telamon, and now Jinx. Some malevolent spirit didn’t want him to have any friends.
“Well then, all right,” he muttered. “I’ll go it alone.”
All day he followed the river down through the foothills. He quickly came to loathe the reeds. They were full of secret rustlings, and they wouldn’t let him see where he was going—or what was in front.
Then he reached a gap, and that was worse.
The Sun was a bloody, burning globe, sinking behind the black mountains. The triple fangs of Mount Lykas were terrifyingly far away. Hylas thought of the trails he’d wandered with Issi and Scram, and the Ancestor Peak, which he and Telamon had dared each other to climb. Above the peaks the sky was an ominous gray, and he caught a growl of thunder. The Sky Father was grinding the clouds together to make a storm. Hylas pictured Issi in the wind and the rain.
Until now, he hadn’t even thought he liked her that much; she was just his annoying little sister, always asking questions and getting in the way. For the first time ever, he missed her.
On the lower slopes of Mount Lykas, he made out a tiny red flicker. Was that Lapithos, and were they lighting the beacons? Was Telamon safe in his father’s stronghold? Or were the Crows burning it to the ground?
Suddenly Hylas had a terrible feeling that he would never see Issi or Telamon again.
“Stealing my chariot!” roared Telamon’s father. “Laming my horses! Haven’t I got enough trouble without you making it worse?”
Telamon leaned against the wall to keep from falling over. He was exhausted, and he knew he was in for a beating: His father was gripping his oxhide whip. Telamon only hoped he could take it without making a sound.
But even worse was the fact that his father had discovered that he’d been friends with Hylas behind his back. One of his shepherds had glimpsed them in the chariot.
“Lying to me,” growled his father, pacing like an angry lion. “Lying for years! Was this honorable?”
“No,” muttered Telamon.
“Then why?”
Telamon took a breath. “He’s my friend.”
“He’s an Outsider and a thief!”
“But—why are they after Outsiders? It
’s not right!”
“Don’t you tell me what’s not right!” exploded his father. “Just tell me where he went!”
Telamon raised his chin. “I—I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Won’t.”
The Chieftain gave him a searching look. Then he threw up his hands. Telamon watched him prowl to the far wall and fling himself onto his green marble seat. On either side of it, painted lions greeted him with silent roars.
Apart from Telamon and his father, the great hall of Lapithos was deserted. It smelled of stale incense and rage. Even the mice in the rafters had fallen silent. Now and then the slap of sandals echoed in the courtyard, but no one dared come any closer. Thestor was a kindly man who rarely raised his voice. When he did, it meant something.
Telamon stood facing his father across the huge round central hearth: a throbbing sea of embers two paces wide, guarded by four massive pillars carved with black and yellow zigzags, like angry wasps.
The fire had been burning for generations without ever being allowed to die. The hearth was ringed with a circle of painted flames, and when he was little, Telamon had loved to crawl around it while Thestor sat drinking with his men, and the women in the upper chamber chatted over their weaving, and the big dogs lazily thumped their tails.
He’d loved the floor too, and he’d explored every one of its red and green patterns that warded off evil spirits. Those patterns now whirled sickeningly before his eyes.
“Someone get the boy a stool before he passes out,” bellowed Thestor.
A slave scuttled in, set one before Telamon, and fled.
Proudly, he ignored it. “I did what I had to do,” he said.
His father glared at him.
But it was true. He had helped Hylas escape and he had decoyed the warriors away. He’d even recovered the chariot—what was left of it—along with poor Smoke, whom he’d found standing forlornly under a tamarisk tree with a stone in his hoof. Jinx was still missing. Telamon hoped this meant that Hylas was on his way to the Sea.
“Why are they after Outsiders?” he said again.
“Why is he your friend?” his father flung back. “Does he matter more than your own kin?”
“Of course not!”
“Then why?”
Telamon bit his lip. Perhaps it was because he and Hylas were so different. He himself could brood for days over an insult, but Hylas simply didn’t care what anyone thought of him; why should he, when they looked down on him anyway? Hylas was ruthless and self-reliant, two qualities that Telamon secretly feared he lacked. And Hylas had no father to live up to.
But it was impossible to explain any of this to Thestor.
Telamon watched the Chieftain put his forearms on his knees and rub his hands over his face. His scarlet tunic was covered in dust, and he looked tired and careworn.
Telamon felt a flash of love for him, and a twinge of anger at Hylas for coming between them. Hylas was his friend, but he would never understand that being the Chieftain’s son meant you were torn between friendship and blood.
Hylas knew nothing of Telamon’s world. He’d never seen painted walls where the Ancestors speared boars and conquered enemies. He’d never seen doors studded with bronze, or marble cups, or gold. He’d never even seen stairs, or a bath. And he had no idea that when Telamon was with him, he only ever brought his second-best knife, because his bronze one would have been showing off.
His father was scowling and tugging at his beard. “Things are worse than you know,” he said suddenly. Then he heaved a sigh. “If you’re a peasant, you can live your whole life without ever going out of earshot of your village; but we can’t, Telamon. We’re leaders.” His scowl deepened. “For years I’ve kept Lykonia separate from what’s been happening in the rest of Akea. But now this. I can’t keep us apart any longer.”
“What do you mean?” said Telamon.
His father met his eyes for a moment, then glanced away.
Telamon felt a stab of alarm. He’d seen something in his father’s eyes that he’d never seen there before. Fear.
“Father, I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “But whatever’s going on, I’ll help you!”
Thestor rose to his feet and hefted the whip in his hand. Then he told his son to bare his back. “I’m sorry too,” he said.
As dusk fell, Hylas found a fisherman’s raft drawn up on the bank. Much better. Now the river could carry him all the way to the Sea.
Lying on his belly on the raft, he paddled with his hands. To his relief he saw no people, although once he glimpsed the fires of a village through the reeds. He pictured everyone huddled inside with the spirit gates shut against the Crows. But did they have spirit gates on the plains? In the mountains they said that plains people grew black barley and had no toes…
On impulse, he drew the bronze dagger from his food sack. Holding it made him feel stronger. It was too dark to make a sheath for it now, so instead he cut strips of willow bark and twisted them into twine, then strapped the dagger to his thigh, under his tunic, where it wouldn’t show.
With more reluctance, he tied the Keftian’s hair securely to his belt. He hated touching the dead man’s hair, but if his food sack fell in the river with it inside, that would be worse: Then he’d have an angry ghost at his heels.
Gripping the edge of the raft, he peered into the darkness, while the gurgling river swept him ever closer to the Sea.
The Sea will give you the answers you seek, the Keftian had said.
Hylas had never even seen the Sea except from the mountains as a distant blue-gray blur, but when he was small, Neleos’ mate, Paria, had enjoyed scaring him with tales of the monsters of the deep. He had no desire to get any closer.
Night wore on, and the creatures of the wild came out. A viper swam past, its tapered head glinting in the moonlight. On the bank a lioness raised her dripping muzzle to watch him pass. In the reeds he caught the shadowy flicker of a water spirit. Her eyes were silver and inhuman, and she looked through him as if he didn’t exist.
What power, he wondered, had chased him from the mountains?
Until now, he’d never thought much about the Great Gods. They were too far away and they didn’t care about goatherds. But what if he’d offended one of them? The Sky Father or the Earthshaker, or the Lady of the Wild Things? Or the shadowy immortals whose true names may not be spoken out loud: the Angry Ones, who hunt those who have murdered their kin; or the Gray Sisters, who crouch in their cave like ancient spiders, spinning their vast web, which contains one thread for every living creature?
Which of these had decided that Skiros should die and he, Hylas, should live?
And what about Issi?
Fireflies flashed past, trailing threads of burning gold. On a reed he spotted a frog that had eaten so many of them that its belly glowed green.
Frogs were Issi’s favorite animal. Once he’d caught a frog for her like this one and put it in a cage of twigs. She’d watched it till it stopped glowing, then carried it carefully back to the river and set it free.
She was always trying to make friends with wild creatures: with weasels and badgers and once, to her cost, a porcupine. And she adored Scram. When she was four and Scram was a puppy, Hylas could always make her laugh by shouting “Scram! Scram!”—and instead of scramming, Scram would come racing toward them, his ears flying and his tongue hanging out. Issi never got tired of it. She’d clap her hands and yell “Scram! Scram!” laughing so hard that she fell over.
Thinking of her made Hylas feel lonelier than ever.
From the moment Neleos had found them on the Mountain wrapped in a bearskin, it had been him and Issi against the world. Hylas had been about five; Issi about two. The old man had tried to take the bearskin, and Hylas had bitten him. And Issi had laughed…
The Sun woke him, shining in his eyes. The raft was stuck on a sandbank. The voice of the river had changed into a distant sighing, as of some vast creature breathing in its sleep.
Scrambling off the raft, Hylas found himself on a shore of glaring white pebbles. The river was gone. Before him shimmered water of astonishing blue that stretched all the way to the sky. Wavelets rimmed with white lapped his feet. The shallows were so clear that he could see right down to the bottom, where the waterweeds weren’t green but purple, and among them he glimpsed weird little round creatures that bristled with black spines, like underwater hedgehogs.
Stooping, he touched the water with one finger. He licked it. He tasted salt.
They know you’re coming, the Keftian had said. They are seeking you through their deep blue world…
Hylas swallowed.
He had reached the Sea.
6
The dolphin was restless.
For some time he’d had a feeling that he was meant to do something, but he didn’t know what. The odd thing was, the rest of his pod didn’t feel the same.
Usually if he felt something, so did the others. That was what it was to be a dolphin: You swam through a shimmering web of clicks and whistles and flickering dolphin thoughts—so that often it felt as if there weren’t many dolphins but one, all leaping and diving together.
But not this time. When he tried to tell them, none of them understood, not even his mother. So now he decided to leave them for a while and see if he could find out for himself.
At first he kept to the Edge, where the Sea was noisy and bright. He heard the spiky cries of seabirds and the hiss and fizz of foam on the shore. He sped through a forest of seaweed because he liked its slippery tickle, and listened to a shoal of bream nosing for worms in the shallows. To take a look at the island that jutted from his range, he leaped out of the Sea, and for the flick of a flipper he was in the Above, where sounds were jagged and the Sun was yellow instead of green. But whatever he was supposed to do, it wasn’t here.
Splashing back into the Sea, he left the restless clamor of the Edge and dived down into the beautiful Blue Deep, where the light was soft and cool, and he could hear himself click. He caught the suck and slither of an octopus, and was tempted to go after it, as octopus were his favorite prey and he enjoyed nosing them out of their holes. But the feeling of something he had to do stuck like a barnacle, and wouldn’t let go.