But that night, as she gazed at the falcon on the bedpost, she said, “Don’t leave me, Echo. I can’t be here without you.”
Echo paused in her preening and glanced at her, and in her dark eyes, Pirra glimpsed the wildness of high places where she could never go.
The next day was blustery, with snow swirling in the courtyard. Echo was restless, flapping her wings at every gust.
All at once, she bobbed her head up and down, shook out her feathers, spread her wings—and flew.
Pirra felt a sharp tug in her heart as Echo rose with a joyful shriek, wobbled, then glided over the sanctuary wall.
Echo flew higher—and for a moment, to Pirra’s astonishment, she felt as if she was flying with Echo: rushing through the limitless Sky.
She felt as if she was free.
The falcon rode the Wind and shrieked with joy. She was a falcon, this was what she was for!
In places the Wind flowed fast and smooth, but in others it was bumpy, with sudden drops and peaks. The falcon couldn’t see them but she felt them, and she had fun twisting and turning: tilting her wingtips to slide off a bumpy bit, slowing herself down by spreading her tail feathers, then stretching her wings and letting an updraft carry her higher.
The strings on her legs dragged a little, but she forgot them as she soared and the earth fell away. The girl was a speck—and yet the falcon felt her spirit flying with her.
Suddenly, the falcon’s heart leaped. There, far below: pigeons.
Folding her wings and tucking her feet under her tail, she dived, enjoying the rush of the freezing air.
The pigeons were fast and they’d seen her. They darted confusingly, she couldn’t decide which one to attack. The Wind was lumpy and tangled. She struggled to adjust her wing feathers to keep her plunge straight.
Just before she reached them, she thrust out her legs and clenched her feet to knock one out of the Sky . . .
She missed.
Pretending it hadn’t happened, she flew off. She was outraged. She was ashamed. What had she done wrong?
Through the voices of Wind and snow and the flurry of escaping pigeons, she heard the girl calling, and flew back toward the eyrie.
The girl didn’t mind that she’d missed. The falcon swooped down, skimming so low that her wing beats stirred the girl’s hair, and the girl laughed, which made the falcon feel a bit better, so she swept off to the juniper tree for a rest.
Perched snugly out of the Wind in the dense branches, she did some preening, then realized she was hungry. The girl always had meat, so the falcon launched off again to get some.
Something yanked her back.
Startled, the falcon struggled to free herself. She couldn’t. The strings on her legs had become tangled in the branches. The falcon tried to peck herself free, but the juniper was prickly and thick; she couldn’t reach.
She shrieked and gaped in alarm. She was stuck.
7
“She’ll come down when she’s hungry,” said Userref. “Until then, you’d better leave her in peace.”
“Mm,” Pirra said doubtfully.
They knew Echo was in the juniper tree, but it was so dense that they couldn’t see her, and when Pirra called, all she heard was a shriek, which could mean anything. Reluctantly, she followed Userref inside.
But Echo didn’t come down, and Pirra couldn’t sleep. She had a horrible tangled-up feeling, as if she was trapped and unable to move. Maybe Echo was trapped. Maybe she couldn’t come down.
As night wore on, the trapped feeling grew worse, and Pirra became more and more convinced that Echo was in trouble. She had to be rescued.
The wind had dropped, and the courtyard was cold and still. In the torchlight, the bulls’ horns cast spiky shadows on the snow.
To avoid getting snagged in the branches, Pirra took off her cloak, boots, and socks and left them at the foot of the wall. The pegs were icy beneath her bare feet as she climbed to the lookout post, and a freezing wind swept up from the precipice.
The sky was just beginning to turn gray, and the juniper was dark and forbidding. Pirra had never climbed a tree in her life. If she made a wrong move, it would be her last.
It occurred to her that Hylas would have sped up it like a squirrel. Oh, shut up, she told herself. He isn’t here.
The first branch she grabbed snapped, nearly pitching her over the edge. Breathing hard, she seized another, and clawed and scrabbled her way into the tree.
“Echo?” she panted.
No answer. But she was here, Pirra felt it.
The juniper was gritty with ash, and as she climbed higher, Pirra got liberally scratched and her feet went numb with cold. At last, through the branches, she glimpsed feathers.
Echo was perched just out of reach, her head hunched on her shoulders, fast asleep. In the gloom, Pirra saw that her traces were badly snagged. No wonder she couldn’t get down.
She was about to call to her when Echo stirred in her sleep. Pirra gasped. The falcon’s right eye was shut, but her left eye was open and alert. One half of her slept—while the other remained awake.
Once again, it came to Pirra that Echo wasn’t just a tetchy young falcon, but a sacred creature whose spirit could never be wholly known.
“She is a daughter of Heru the All-Seeing,” Userref had told her. “Heru the Great Falcon, Lord of the Horizons. The speckled feathers of His breast are the stars, and His wings are the sky: With every downbeat He creates the winds. Heru never sleeps, for His left eye is the Moon, and his right eye is the Sun, which gives life to all . . .”
Somewhere far beyond the Great Cloud, the Sun woke—and so did Echo. She sneezed, tried to scratch her ear with one foot, realized she was stuck, and struggled to flap her wings.
“Keep still, you’ll hurt yourself!” said Pirra. “I’ll cut you free.”
Echo swiveled her head and glared at her. Her beak was agape, sending out smoky puffs of breath, but she was listening.
Still talking, Pirra stretched as far as she could, and offered Echo a scrap of frozen squirrel. Echo relaxed enough to take it, and while she was ripping it to shreds, Pirra drew her knife and cut the traces.
To her surprise, instead of taking off, Echo gulped the rest of the squirrel, then sidled along the branch and stepped onto her wrist. For a moment, Pirra put her forehead against the falcon’s cool soft breast, and felt Echo’s beak touch her hair. “Thank you, Echo,” she whispered.
Then the falcon was gone, swooping down to the courtyard, where she perched on the woodpile and called impatiently to Pirra. Eck-eck-eck! Hurry up and come down!
Stiff with cold, Pirra scrambled out of the tree and down to the courtyard. She’d pulled on her clothes and was dusting herself off when Userref and Silea emerged from the sanctuary.
The Egyptian saw Echo and smiled. “I told you she’d come down when she was ready.”
Pirra didn’t reply.
Silea was eyeing her suspiciously. “Mistress, you have juniper prickles in your hair.”
“So I have,” Pirra said coolly.
A few days later, Echo flew off and didn’t come back.
Since being rescued from the tree, her flying had improved incredibly fast, with agile swerves and heart-stopping drops. Pirra had worried that she’d crash, until Userref had pointed out the extra feathers on the elbows of her wings: “They’ll slow her down till she can handle an adult’s speed.”
But suddenly Echo wasn’t there anymore. Pirra stood in the courtyard, unable to take it in. She had a sense of a high, cold, limitless sky, and knew that Echo was far away. “I didn’t think she’d go so soon,” she whispered.
“She may still return,” said Userref.
“But it’s been a whole day, and she hasn’t learned to hunt!”
“The Wild is her home, Pirra. She’ll learn. And who knows, maybe she??
?ll bring back the Sun.”
Pirra didn’t care about the Sun; she wanted Echo.
When Userref had gone inside, she climbed to the lookout post. Clouds seeped over the crags, and the pines stood silent on the slopes. Behind the waterfall’s muted roar, she sensed the vast brooding presence of the mountain. She was alone again. Trapped in this endless gray twilight.
Without Echo, her chamber was deathly quiet. The remains of a pigeon wing dangled from the bedpost, and on the floor stood a small earthenware dish of water. Echo had ignored it—Userref said falcons rarely drank—but Pirra had found this so hard to believe that she’d put it there anyway.
Beside it lay one of Echo’s pellets, delicately woven of mouse fur and bones. Pirra stooped to put it in her amulet pouch—and suddenly the floor tilted, a wave of weakness washed over her, and her knees buckled and she went down.
The next thing she knew, she was lying in bed. Userref was tucking sheepskins around her, and Silea was warming a bowl over the brazier.
The glow of the embers hurt Pirra’s eyes. “Wha’ happened?” she mumbled.
“It’s nothing,” Userref said in a low voice. “You caught a fever, being out in the cold.”
It didn’t feel like nothing. Her head was cracking open and she was freezing and burning up at the same time.
When she woke again, she ached all over, her teeth were chattering, and needles of fire were piercing her skull.
Userref sat cross-legged on the ground, rocking and muttering a charm in Egyptian. He’d reverted to his old linen kilt, and on his bare chest she saw his wedjat amulet: the sacred eye of his falcon-headed god. Over the winter, he’d taught Pirra a little of his speech, and she understood snatches of the charm. “My fledgling is hot in the nest . . . the black seeds of sickness fly towards her . . . All-seeing One, let them not touch her . . .”
Pirra shut her eyes, but that made her dizzier. She spiraled down into the whirling dark . . .
Now Hylas was bending over her, scowling through his shaggy fair hair. “What have you done with Havoc?” he demanded. “You were supposed to look after her!”
“I lost her,” she mumbled.
“This always happens,” he complained. “I make friends, then I lose them. But this time, it’s your fault!”
What about me? she wanted to say. You didn’t lose me, you sent me away.
But she was so weak her lips wouldn’t move, and the pain in her head was agonizing. She tried to tell him that she was sorry about Havoc, but as she squinted up at him, he turned into Silea. The slave girl was clutching a steaming basin and shaking with terror. “I c-can’t touch her,” she stammered. “I’ll catch it too!”
“Give that to me,” snapped Userref. Snatching the basin, he dipped in the cloth and gently wiped Pirra’s face. She moaned, and he put down the basin and began passing his cool fingers lightly over her throat, then under her chin, as if he was searching for something.
With a jolt of terror, Pirra realized what he was feeling for: the telltale boils of Plague.
8
From a distance, Hylas scanned the farmhouse for signs of Plague. No white handprints, no stumpy little pus-eaters. Should he risk looking inside for food, or press on into the foothills?
She’s in the mountains at Taka Zimi, Gorgo had said. But where? Above him the peaks were covered in snow and riven by deep forested gorges. Pirra could be anywhere. If she was still alive. And if the Plague could kill High Priestess Yassassara, what hope was there for her daughter?
But he had to keep trying. He had sent Pirra to Keftiu. It was his fault that she was shut up in Taka Zimi.
For three days he had made his way across the haunted plain. Once it had been rich and populous, but the ash-gray settlements were deserted—except for half-seen ghosts, angrily seeking what was lost.
He couldn’t always see them. At times, a bird or a fox would flee in terror from something unseen; but at others, he would get that ache in his temple, like a warning, and fear would clutch at his heart, and he would glimpse a shadow at the corner of his eye. Why him? Was it because he was here on Keftiu? Was it because of the Plague? All he knew was that it happened, and he hated it.
And he dreaded the Plague. For three days he’d kept to the woods, making shelters out of branches and waking often and checking himself for the black swarm of sickness. To ward it off, he dusted his face with Gorgo’s fleabane and sulfur, and scoured his fingertips with a lump of pumice Periphas had given him. “Plague gets in through the whorls on your fingertips,” Periphas had said. “You’ll increase your chances if you rub them off.”
Sometimes, Hylas had spotted other ragged wanderers, but when he’d tried to ask about Taka Zimi, they’d fled. Maybe they thought he was a ghost. It was hard to tell in this twilight, because ghosts have no shadow, and without the Sun, neither did anyone else.
He kept stumbling upon tombs. Many had been hastily sealed, and foxes had broken in and scavenged the dead. To stop the ghosts from following him, he’d made wristbands with strips cut from his food pouch, and stained them red with ochre he’d dug from a hill.
His food was getting low. In the few farmhouses that weren’t stricken, the fleeing peasants had left little behind. He’d survived on Periphas’ bag of barley meal, with milk from a lonely and very sooty goat, which had been so glad to be milked that he hadn’t had the heart to kill it. It had repaid him by uprooting its tether and sneaking off while he slept.
It was achingly cold. By now it should be spring, with bees buzzing in the almond blossom; but the trees and vineyards stood silent and black. If the Sun didn’t return soon, nothing would grow and everyone would starve. Gorgo was right. The gods had abandoned Keftiu.
The farmhouse door creaked dismally in the wind. Could he risk going inside?
He was too hungry to care, and headed for the door.
He was in luck. Whoever had lived here had forgotten two smoke-blackened pig’s legs, hanging from a crossbeam.
As he reached to unhook them, a pigeon burst from the rafters with a clatter of wings, and he caught movement in the shadows. Whipping out his knife, he leaped sideways. A pitchfork skewered the wall where he’d stood a moment before.
His attacker jabbed at him again, yelling in Keftian.
Again Hylas dodged. “I don’t want to fight!” he shouted.
Still yelling, the Keftian lunged. He was a ragged young man with a grimy, desperate face: clearly a wanderer like Hylas, also after that meat.
“I don’t want to fight!” repeated Hylas, yanking his axe from his belt.
Shouting and brandishing weapons, they glared at each other.
“This is stupid!” panted Hylas. “There’s enough for both of us!”
The Keftian scowled and shook his pitchfork. For all he knew, Hylas was threatening to gut him like a pig.
With his knife, Hylas pointed at a pig leg, then at his own chest. “That one for me and that one”—he pointed at the other—“for you.”
With a snarl, the Keftian stood his ground.
To prove his good faith, Hylas tossed over his waterskin. “Have a drink. It’s milk.” He uttered ug-ug noises, then pulled imaginary teats, made the ffft-ffft sound of milk hitting a pail, and bleated like a goat.
Fear and hunger warred in the Keftian’s face. Without taking his eyes off Hylas, he snatched the waterskin and sniffed. He took a gulp.
“Ug-ug,” urged Hylas as he slowly sheathed his knife.
The Keftian set down the waterskin and stared at him.
Hylas laid his axe on the floor, then raised his hands, palms outward. “See? No weapons.”
A long, taut silence. Still with his eyes on Hylas, the Keftian propped his pitchfork against the wall. Then he put his fist to his forehead, bowed—and broke into a grin.
Some time later, after they’d eaten their fill and made rope slings to car
ry their pig’s legs, Hylas and the Keftian went outside and gazed at the mountains.
Keftian mountains were nothing like the ones where Hylas had grown up. Lykonian mountains were jagged, but Keftian peaks were rounded; they made Hylas think of gods lying on their backs and staring at the sky.
“Dikti,” said the Keftian, pointing at the top of the highest mountain. “Taka Zimi, Dikti.”
“That’s the mountain’s name?” said Hylas. “Dikti?”
The Keftian nodded. “Taka Zimi. Dikti.”
Hylas put his fist to his forehead and bowed. “Thank you.”
The Keftian indicated that he intended to stay in the farmhouse, and after more bowing, Hylas headed off.
He hadn’t gone far when the Keftian called to him again. “Rauko!” he shouted. Then he stamped one foot, raised both outstretched arms to his ears, and pointed forward. “Rauko, rauko!”
Puzzled, Hylas shook his head. What do you mean?
The Keftian did it again. When Hylas still didn’t understand, the Keftian gave up and bowed. That looked suspiciously like Good luck, you’re going to need it—and as Hylas headed for the mountains, he sensed that he’d been given a warning.
They say there’s Plague up that way, Gorgo had told him, and some monster stalking the forest.
Was that what the Keftian had been trying to tell him? Beware of monsters?
Hylas encountered no monsters, but as he climbed higher, every hut and farmhouse bore the marks of Plague.
He wondered if Pirra had been with her mother when she’d died. Pirra had hated her mother, but how would she feel now? Hylas had never known his own mother, who’d left him and Issi on Mount Lykas when they were little, and he’d envied Pirra hers. She’d always found that hard to understand.
He found a trail that followed a stream up a gully, and came to a grove of ash-crusted olive trees. Near one, he found a muddy wallow, and at about the height of his head, a patch of bark rubbed off the trunk. What creature had done this? A bear would have left claw marks, but there were none. A deer? Hylas didn’t know any that big.