“Because for some reason I couldn’t let you freeze to death outside the door.” He rose to fetch wood from a pile in the corner, and Hylas saw how he winced and flexed his right leg. “Yes that’s your fault too,” muttered Akastos. “A little reminder of that burn you gave me last summer.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s not going to do me much good. Here, help fix something to eat.”
Hylas rummaged around and found two chipped horn beakers and a couple of bowls, while Akastos unearthed a soot-crusted cooking pot and pooled their provisions: what was left of the barley meal and bacon, some goat’s cheese, a couple of moldy onions, snow, and a handful of hairy pale-green leaves from a pouch at his belt.
“What’s that?” Hylas said warily.
“Dittany. It only grows in the Keftian mountains and it keeps away Plague—so don’t complain about the taste.” Chucking Hylas a stick, he told him to stir the porridge, then started mixing wine with more snow and crumbled cheese in another bowl.
Hylas said, “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Mm.”
“They—the Crows—they got the dagger back.”
Akastos stopped mixing the wine. “How?” he said.
Hylas told him how he’d battled the Crows on the burning mountain of Thalakrea. He was shaking when he’d finished, but Akastos merely lifted his beaker and tasted the wine, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“You don’t seem surprised,” said Hylas.
“I’m not. I guessed months ago, because they’re stronger than ever. They’ve taken the mines at Lavrion—which means they can make all the weapons they need.” He paused. “Now suppose you tell me how you fetched up here.”
Still stirring the porridge, Hylas told him of his wanderings, and Akastos listened without giving anything away, although he asked lots of questions about Periphas.
“When we reached Keftiu,” said Hylas, “the others left and I stayed . . .” He broke off, remembering the haunted shore and the ghostly children. “Something’s wrong with me,” he blurted out. “I can see ghosts.”
Akastos set down his beaker and looked at him.
“It’s horrible, I hate it!” cried Hylas. “I never know when I’m going to see them—and when I do, my head hurts.” He touched the scar on his temple. “Why is it happening? Why me? I never could before!” He appealed to Akastos, the wisest man he knew.
But all the wanderer said was, “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”
Hylas blinked. “I—I’m trying to find Pirra.”
“Who? Oh, I remember, your girl.”
Hylas flushed. “She’s not my girl, we’re just friends.”
Akastos snorted. “You’re what, nearly fourteen? You expect me to believe that?”
Hylas’ flush deepened. “I don’t care what you believe,” he said crossly. “She’s somewhere called Taka Zimi, it’s high on Mount Dikti, but I don’t know where.”
“Stop stirring, it’s ready,” said Akastos.
The wine was strong, the porridge delicious, and Hylas forgot about being annoyed and ate two bowlfuls, then scraped the pot. Feeling pleasantly giddy and beautifully warm, he mustered his courage. “What about you?”
“What about me?” said Akastos without looking up.
“What are you doing here?”
He could see Akastos deciding how much to tell him. “I’m trying to find some people I used to know who hate the Crows as much as I do.”
The Crows. In his mind, Hylas saw their black rawhide armor and their harsh faces smeared with ash. Out loud he said, “Are the Crows here on Keftiu?”
“If not yet, then soon.”
“Why would they come here?”
“Work it out, Flea. After what’s happened, Keftiu is the weakest it’s been in years. The Crows are bound to invade, it’s what they do.” His tone was bitter. Long ago, the Crows had invaded his homeland. He’d fought alongside the rightful High Chieftain, and they might have won, if Outsiders from the mountains had fought with them. But the Outsiders had refused, and because of that, the High Chieftain had been killed, Koronos had seized Mycenae, and Akastos had lost his farm and fled.
A gust of wind burst open the door, letting in a blast of snow. Akastos slammed the door shut and Hylas wedged it with a piece of wood. When he sat down again, he was shaking. That felt like a message from the Crows: Wherever you are, we will find you.
All winter, he’d tried not to think about them, but now in his mind he saw Koronos, their lizard-eyed leader. He saw Telamon, who’d been his own best friend until he’d turned his back on friendship and sided with his terrible grandfather, Koronos. He saw Koronos’ murderous spawn: Pharax, Alekto, and Kreon. And he remembered the terrible night when the Crows had attacked his camp, killing his dog and separating him from Issi.
Thinking of it made him dizzy and sick, and he clutched his upper arm, where the Crows’ black obsidian arrowhead had dug into his flesh.
“So now, Flea,” said Akastos, wrenching him back from the past. “Once again you just happen to cross my path. All I know about you is that you may or may not be the Outsider in the Oracle. It’s time to tell me who you really are.”
“Wh-what do you mean?” stammered Hylas. “You know who I am, I’m—”
“Where do you come from? Why do our paths keep crossing? Who were your parents?”
“I don’t know,” said Hylas. “That’s the truth. I never knew my father, I don’t know anything about him.”
Akastos gave him a long, searching stare. “What about your mother?”
“All I remember is she had dark hair and she told me to look after Issi. She left us on Mount Lykas when we were little, wrapped in a bearskin.”
Akastos’ face didn’t move, but Hylas sensed the swift current of his thoughts. “A bearskin,” repeated the wanderer.
Hylas nodded. “I’m certain she meant to come back for us, but something stopped her. I think she’s still alive—I mean, I feel it. Someday, she’ll find us.”
“But she hasn’t.”
“No.”
Again, Akastos scratched his beard.
As Hylas studied his weather-beaten features, a startling idea came to him. It was so astonishing—so wonderful—that his head swam. “You’ve been to Lykonia, haven’t you?” he began carefully. “I mean, where I grew up?”
Akastos flicked him a glance. “What makes you say that?”
“One of the first things you ever said to me was that I was a long way from Mount Lykas.”
Akastos’ lip curled. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything you’ve said to me.” Hylas took a deep breath. “Are you my father?”
Outside, the wind dropped, as if it was listening. The fire hissed, sending smoke and sparks sweeping through the smoke-hole and into the dark.
Raising his head, Akastos met Hylas’ eyes. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m not your father.”
Hylas clenched his fists. He was desperate for it to be true. “But—you might be,” he said, “only you don’t know it. You said you had a son my age.”
“I said he would have been your age if he’d lived.”
“Well—maybe you met my mother on your travels, and—”
“Hylas, I’m dark and you’re fair—”
“That doesn’t mean anything! When she was carrying me she could’ve stared at the Sun; they say that gives a baby fair hair! And you once told me that we’re alike, you and me, both survivors, both good liars—”
“Hylas, I remember the women I’ve been with, and I’m certain. I am not your father.”
Hylas stared at his empty cup. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his belly. “I wish you were,” he mumbled.
“Why would you wish that?” said Akastos with unaccustomed gentlene
ss.
Hylas wanted to say, because he admired Akastos and longed for him to take the place of the shadowy void that was all he felt when he thought of his father. Instead he muttered, “I don’t know, I just do.”
He became aware that Akastos was moving about, gathering his gear. “What are you doing?” Hylas said uneasily.
“Storm’s blown over. It’ll be light soon, I’m heading off.”
“Can I come with you? Just for a bit.”
Akastos looked down at him, and for a moment his hard features softened. “Hylas. I know our fates are entangled in some way neither of us understands, but I also know that when you’re with me, things go wrong. It’s better we go our separate ways.”
“No!” cried Hylas. He lurched to his feet—and swayed. His head whirling sickeningly, he couldn’t keep his balance.
“Lie down,” said Akastos. “You’ll feel better soon.”
“You drugged me,” muttered Hylas.
“Just a little poppy juice in your wine, to stop you following me. Here.” He tucked a small pouch in Hylas’ belt. “Some buckthorn, to keep away ghosts.”
“You drugged me.” Hylas subsided onto the floor. His eyelids were so heavy, they wouldn’t stay open.
“About Taka Zimi,” said Akastos, his voice coming and going in waves. “Follow this ridge we’re on west, till you reach a lightning-struck pine. Behind it you’ll see a crag split in two, and a waterfall. Make for that. Taka Zimi is just below it on the shoulder of the mountain. Stay as high as you can for as long as you can, and avoid the gorge. And Hylas—watch yourself. Taka Zimi is a sanctuary of the Goddess. It’s not a place you simply walk into.”
“Don’t leave me,” Hylas tried to say, but he couldn’t move his lips.
When he woke, the fire had burned low. He stumbled out into the cold gray half-light. Windblown snow hissed sadly about his boots. He could see no footprints. All trace of Akastos was gone.
12
The lion cub slitted her eyes against the wind and watched the boy stumble back into his lair.
Sadly, she turned and headed up the ridge. He would be all right now. She had saved him by leading him to the black-maned human, who had looked after him, as he’d done in the past. But now she had to leave. It was too dangerous and confusing to stay.
The storm was over, and the forest creatures were coming out of hiding. Redwings chattered in the branches, scattering the cub with Bright Soft Cold. Swiveling her ears, she caught the caws of ravens, and quickened her pace. Ravens only cawed like that when they’d found a carcass.
They scattered when they saw her, but the cub took one sniff at the carcass and drew back, twitching her tail in disgust. It was human, and crawling with the foul black specks that she knew to avoid.
The Dark swallowed the forest, and the lion cub prowled the mountain in search of food. She found no live prey and no more carcasses, not even bones.
At last she caught the crackle of fire and the voices of men. She was about to flee, when she smelled meat.
Bristling with fear, she padded closer and snuffed the wind. Yes. The muzzle-watering scent of deer blood.
Terror and hunger fought within her. Hunger won. Placing each paw with care, she belly-crawled between the pines.
Another gust of wind carried the humans’ scent to her nose. She froze. There between the trees were the terrible men with the flapping black hides who had slaughtered her pride.
Suddenly she was a little cub again, listening to her father’s furious roars as the terrible men closed in for the kill. She saw her mother’s great golden lifeless eyes . . .
The rich smell of blood tugged her back. These men had meat. And sometimes, humans left scraps.
“I saw something,” said Telamon. “Over there among the trees.”
“Only a deer,” growled Kreon.
“No,” said Telamon. “It was bigger than that.”
“They say there’s a monster on Mount Dikti,” muttered Ilarkos, Kreon’s second-in-command. “The prisoner told me it was sent by the ghost of the High Priestess to protect her daughter.”
Telamon gave him a cold stare. “Nothing can protect her from us. Let’s go back to camp; the men have put up the tents and I want to question the prisoner again.”
To his irritation, Ilarkos didn’t obey at once, but sought confirmation from Kreon, who drew his wolf-fur cloak about him and gave a curt nod.
How dare he, thought Telamon as they crunched through the snow to where the men were burning wormwood to ward off the Plague. It was my idea to come to Keftiu, I made it happen. And I’m going to find the dagger. Not Kreon.
It made him seethe that the men still viewed him as a boy, who’d not yet killed enough boar to make his own boars’-tusk helmet, and who—to his shame—hadn’t yet grown a beard.
All I need, Telamon told himself, is one chance to prove that I’m a man. Then they’ll know I’m the one they should obey.
The prisoner stood outside their tent, shivering. Telamon swept past him and ducked inside. Kreon was already seated on a log, warming his hands at the brazier. As Telamon drew up another log, the slave brought a large bronze bowl of roast venison, dried anchovies, and figs, and they fell on it, washing it down with steaming beakers of honeyed wine.
At last Kreon wiped his fingers on his furs and nodded to Ilarkos, who brought in the prisoner.
The wretch fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the earth. He was bruised, bloodied, and shaking with fear. Telamon had picked him for a guide because he was a goatherd—and so was Hylas. When Telamon saw the terror in the Keftian’s brown eyes, he pictured Hylas kneeling before him, begging for his life.
“How much farther to Taka Zimi?” he asked in the quiet voice that he’d learned from his grandfather Koronos was so much more terrifying than Kreon’s bluster.
Ilarkos, who spoke a little Keftian, translated, and the prisoner stammered an answer in his odd bird-like speech. “He says it’s no more than a day, my lord.”
“He’s sure about that,” said Telamon.
Ilarkos grunted. “He’d better be.”
Pointedly, Telamon stared at Kreon’s weapons, piled on his massive ox-hide shield. The prisoner gulped at the hefty spear and sword and the rawhide whip with the bronze spikes, which earlier had taken the skin off his back.
“And the girl will be there, at Taka Zimi?” said Telamon.
“. . . He’s sure of that too, my lord,” said Ilarkos, translating the desperate torrent of speech. “He says the High Priestess sent the girl there when the Plague struck.”
“And he knows what’ll happen if he’s lying,” growled Kreon.
“He knows, my lord.”
Telamon rose and put his hands on his hips. The Keftian didn’t dare look him in the face, but fastened his gaze on Telamon’s belt. His eyes widened as he saw the splendid gold plaques on either side of the clasp.
“Yes, they’re Keftian,” Telamon told him softly. “Once they were part of a wristband that belonged to your High Priestess’ daughter. Now they belong to me. What does that tell you about the fate of your precious island?”
Ilarkos started to translate, but Telamon cut him short. “He understands.”
“Take him away and feed him,” said Kreon. “We need him alive till we’ve got the girl.”
When the prisoner had been hauled outside, Telamon remained on his feet, warming his hands over the brazier.
Kreon rose, a bull of a man, towering over him. “This is starting to look like a mistake,” he said between his teeth.
“Be patient, Uncle,” said Telamon.
“I’m not known for my patience. You told me we’d find the dagger. That’s why I agreed to come.”
Telamon did not reply. It hadn’t been hard to persuade Kreon, who was burning to be the one to restore the dagger to his father, Koronos. I
f he did, then at one stroke he would have gained his father’s favor and shattered the hopes of his brother and sister, whom he’d hated all his life.
“And in case you’ve forgotten,” Kreon went on, “if it hadn’t been for me, Koronos wouldn’t have let you come at all.”
“Are you sorry you did?” Telamon said sharply.
“I’m sorry I let you talk us into heading into the mountains! What are we doing here? The House of the Goddess is standing empty, we have a golden chance to seize the whole island!”
“With forty men?”
“Keftians don’t know how to fight!” sneered Kreon. “But instead, where are we? Knee-deep in snow halfway up some cursed mountain—because you say the girl has the dagger!”
“She does.”
“You’d better be sure about that.”
“I’ve told you before. I saw her getting away from Thalakrea. I guessed soon afterward that she’d stolen it. Then at Mycenae I asked a seer, and he said, ‘What you seek is on Keftiu.’ How much more proof do you need?”
Kreon pushed his face close to Telamon’s. “What I need,” he said in a voice that made Telamon shrink inside, “is to hold the dagger in my fist. What I need is to know you’re not wasting my time.”
Telamon saw the bronze wire glinting in his uncle’s greasy black beard. He caught his rank warrior smell and the threat behind his words. If he let Kreon down, kinship wouldn’t save him.
What was even more frightening was that beneath his threats, Kreon was scared. Keftiu had turned out to be far more unsettling than either of them had anticipated.
The first night when they’d beached their ships on the coast, they’d smeared their faces with ash and sacrificed a black ram to the Angry Ones. They’d waited for a sign, but it hadn’t come. The spirits of air and darkness were far away.
But how was that possible? The Angry Ones are drawn to burned things: Why would they stay away from a whole vast island reeking of ash?
Telamon had learned the answer from the Keftian prisoner. “When the Great Cloud came and the sky rained ash,” the goatherd had babbled, “the High Priestess cast powerful spells to ward off the Angry Ones. Our Keftian magic is ancient, very strong.” That hint of defiance had earned him a savage whipping—but his words had struck deep.