The Burning Shadow (16 page)

“S
trange,” said Akastos, watching the flames. “They hate fire because it gives light, and yet they're drawn to burned things. As bitter as guilt.”

“I know about guilt,” said Hylas.

“At your age? I doubt that.”

Hylas told him how he'd decoyed the Crows away from Issi, then hadn't been able to find her.

“You were a boy against warriors,” said Akastos. “It wasn't your fault.”

“But she'll think I abandoned her.” He picked a scab off his knee. “Sometimes I think that if I keep Havoc safe, the Lady of the Wild Things will look after Issi.”

A shadow of pity crossed Akastos' face. “Be careful, Flea, you're growing too attached to that cub. If you become attached to things, you get hurt.”

Hylas swallowed. “Do you still think Havoc's an omen?”

Akastos prodded the fire with a stick. “Well, people did call the High Chieftain of Mycenae a lion—I mean the real High Chieftain, before Koronos took over—and my farm was on the plains, just below the citadel. Then years later, a boy walks into my smithy: an Outsider with a lion claw around his neck and a lion cub at his heels. So yes, Flea, I think she's an omen—although I don't know what it means.”

As if she knew they were talking about her, Havoc came and leaned against Hylas. He scratched her scruff, and she licked his knee, then lay down on his feet and went to sleep.

“I thought you didn't believe in omens,” said Hylas.

“I said I don't rely on oracles. Oracles are riddles spoken by seers; omens are signs made by animals. Seers lie. Animals don't.”

Hylas said, “Where I come from, farmers have bent backs and crooked legs. You don't look like a farmer to me.”

Akastos shrugged. “The Mycenaean plains are the richest in Akea, the farming's easy. I had barley fields, olive groves. And vines . . . my wine was the darkest, the strongest . . . The Crows took it all.”

“Did you have a family?”

He hesitated. “My son would be about your age if he'd lived.” His face grew distant, remembering. “At first it was only Koronos and his blood kin, with a small band of warriors. They came from their ancestral chieftaincy, Lykonia, and they brought gifts. The High Chieftain wasn't fooled, but others were—till it was nearly too late. For a time, the struggle for power lay on a knife edge. It would be decided in the mountains around Mycenae. They were home to a tribe of Outsiders—”

“Outsiders?” cried Hylas.

“They weren't outcasts, as they are where you come from, but proud people, incredibly skilled at woodlore. They knew the mountains like nobody else. You never heard of them?”

Hylas shook his head. “What happened then?”

“The High Chieftain went to their leader and sought his help against the Crows.” His voice hardened. “The leader of the Outsiders wanted no part in it. He said it was no concern of his people. Soon after, the tide turned in favor of the Crows. The High Chieftain was killed. Mycenae fell to Koronos.” He paused. “About that time, the Angry Ones came after me.”

Hylas waited, not daring to breathe.

“I had a brother,” said Akastos. “He was also my best friend. The Crows told him lies about me and we fought.” He opened his hands and let something fall that only he could see. “I killed him. I killed my brother.”

The fire crackled. The smithy felt airless and hot.

“The Angry Ones descended like a plague,” Akastos told the flames. “Blighting my crops, my cattle. I had to leave the farm, or there'd have been nothing left.” He drew a breath. “So. That's why I'm always moving on to the next hiding place, the next disguise. Because I killed my brother.”

Hylas forced himself to look Akastos in the eye. “It was the Crows' fault, not yours. They made you do it.”

“It was my fault, Flea.”

“Maybe it was the will of the gods—”

“That's the coward's way out.
I
wielded the knife.
I
spilled his blood. Except ‘spilled' sounds too clean, and there's nothing clean about killing a man. When you kill a man, Flea, you feel your knife pushing into his flesh. You hear his agony, you smell his terror as he realizes he's going to die. Then you see his eyes grow dull, and you feel the full horror of what you've done, but it's too late, you've taken his life, you can never give it back . . .” He passed his hand across his mouth, and Hylas saw how it shook.

“Sometimes they come to me in my dreams,” Akastos whispered, “and they have my brother's face. I see him with the blood streaming from his eyes. Angry. Accusing me.” He fell silent. “I'm doing you no favors by keeping you here, Flea.”

“You're keeping me alive. But why are
you
here, on Thalakrea? I think the Crows worship the Angry Ones—so how can you bring yourself to stay here, when they might be so close?”

Akastos' light-gray eyes pierced his, and Hylas sensed his supple mind deciding what to reveal. “For fourteen years, I've been on the run. Two things I've sworn to do before I die. Nothing else matters. To destroy the dagger of Koronos—and appease my brother's ghost. For that I'll risk everything. Even getting caught by the Angry Ones.”

A log shifted in the forge, and Hylas jumped. “How can you appease a ghost?”

“By feeding him the blood of vengeance: the lifeblood of a highborn Crow. Only then will his spirit be at peace. Only then will I be rid of the Angry Ones.”

On the cliffs, the gulls were awake. Hylas heard the ox-carts rumbling up from the charcoal pits. Red light stole into the smithy and lit Akastos' haunted features.

Hylas thought of what he'd just learned. He said, “Why did you tell me all this?”

To his surprise, Akastos nodded approvingly. “That's good, you're thinking like a survivor.”

“So—why?”

“I told you all this, Flea, because oddly enough, I'd rather not have to hand you over to Kreon to be gutted like a pig. But if you get in my way, I will. So now you know what I'm after. Don't get in the way.” Before Hylas could reply, he'd gotten up and left the smithy.

Hylas ran to the doorway and watched him go. Akastos the wanderer had become Dameas the smith, heading off to see that the furnaces were properly loaded with greenstone and charcoal. He glanced back, and his meaning was clear:
What I've told you changes nothing. Now get to work.
Then he put on his mask and was gone.

As Hylas fed the fire, he wondered how Akastos had borne it. Most men haunted by the Angry Ones went mad within a year. Akastos had lasted fourteen.

Footsteps outside, and he turned to speak to the smith.

It wasn't him. It was a slave Hylas didn't know, a sweaty young man with the bulging eyes of a frightened hare.

“Message from the lord Telamon,” he whispered. “
Midnight. Here.
”

“Here?” said Hylas. “I should wait here?”

“There'll be a boat below the cliffs. He knows a way down.”

“Come back! Is that all?”

“That's all I know,” muttered the slave as he scuttled off.

Hylas' mind reeled. But he had no time to take it in. Thirty paces away under the thorn tree, two people stood waiting.

One was a tall woman with a white streak in her hair and wild eager eyes fixed on him.

The other was Pirra.

“I
'm so glad you found Havoc,” said Pirra, kneeling on the floor of the smithy and rubbing foreheads with the cub.

“I didn't,” said Hylas, “she found me.”

They exchanged grins.

The lion cub stood with her forepaws on Pirra's thighs and gave her cheek a rasping lick. Hylas knelt and trailed a wicker ball—a new one—and Havoc pounced.

Hylas had darkened his hair with charcoal, which was wearing off in streaks. Pirra thought he looked stronger than she'd ever seen him. She was pleased that he still wore the lion claw on his chest, and relieved that there were no welts on his back.

“I was so worried the smith would have you flogged,” she said.

He glanced at her. “I was worried you wouldn't get back to the village.”

“I did, but Hekabi had been summoned by Kreon, and the guards on the ridge wouldn't let me past without her. I had to wait. It was horrible, I had no idea what had happened to you.”

Hylas ran his fingers through Havoc's fur. “It's really good to see you, Pirra.”

“You too.” She pushed her hair behind her ears, then remembered her scar, and turned her head so he couldn't see.

“Why do you do that?” he said quietly. “Your scar's part of who you are.”

She flushed. “Well I wish it wasn't. I tried some of that magic mud, but it didn't work. I even got some powdered sulfur from Merops. That didn't work either.” Shut
up,
Pirra. There was so little time, and she was babbling about her stupid scar.

Under the thorn tree, Hekabi was getting tired of waiting.

Pirra said, “She wants to talk to you.”

Hylas was instantly on his guard. “About what?”

She hesitated. “I told her about the Oracle. She wants—”

“You told her who I am?”

“Listen to me, Hylas. She hates the Crows as much as we do. And she's—she's after the dagger.”

Rising to his feet, he went to stand behind the forge; as if he needed to put something between them. “Don't you remember what I told you on the Mountain?” he said without meeting her eyes. “I don't care about the dagger anymore.”

“I don't believe that.”

“Well it's true.”

Pirra stood and faced him. Between them the fire hissed and the air shimmered with heat. “Just listen to what she has to say.”

“No. You listen to me.” He scowled at the embers. “Telamon's going to help me escape.”

Pirra caught her breath. “Telamon,” she repeated. “Telamon the Crow. The grandson of Koronos.”

He flinched. “If he'd wanted to betray me, he'd have done it by now.”

“And if you're wrong?”

“I'm not.”

“I see,” she said with mounting anger. “And when is Telamon—your
friend
—going to help you escape?”

“Tonight. I'm meeting him here at midnight.”

She felt as if he'd punched her in the chest. If she hadn't found her way to the smithy, he would have left her behind. “And—you believe him?”

“Pirra, this is my only chance. I've got to take it, I owe it to Issi. Can't you see?”

Hekabi left the thorn tree and started toward them.

“Come with me,” Hylas said suddenly.

But it seemed to Pirra that she could see the dagger of Koronos between them: keeping them apart. “I can't,” she said.

“
Why
not?”

“How can you ask? How can you turn your back on all this and run away!”

A flush stole across his cheekbones. “It's not running away.”

“Yes it is,” said Hekabi.

They turned and watched her enter the smithy. Her glance flicked to Havoc—who shot behind a stack of ingots—then back to Hylas.

He gave her a defiant stare. “What's it to you?”

“Everything,” she said sternly. “If you
are
the one in the Oracle, we can't defeat them without you.” Putting out her hand, she touched her finger to his brow. “You've been close to an immortal. I can feel it, crackling on your skin.”

“No.” He backed away.

“He has,” said Pirra. “Last summer in a cave, we were in the presence of the Lady of the Sea. He touched the blue fire.”

“Yes,” murmured Hekabi, “the burning shadow of a god. I can always tell.”

“
So?
” cried Hylas. “What of it?”

“It means you're the one,” said the wisewoman. “It means you have a destiny. Your life is not your own.”

“What's going on in here?” demanded a voice from the doorway.

Pirra turned to see a tall angry man with his hands on his hips. With a jolt, she recognized the shipwrecked stranger who'd once captured Hylas.

“Get out of my smithy!” he barked.

Before Pirra could say a word, Hylas had grabbed her wrist and dragged her behind the forge. “His name's
Dameas
now,” he hissed. “You've never heard the name Akastos!”

She twisted out of his grip. “
What?
You mean he's the
smith
?”

“He hates the Crows, they took his farm. And he knows about the Oracle. We can trust him—I think.”

“You
think
?” she whispered furiously.

There was no time to explain. Hylas' head was spinning. First the message from Telamon, then Pirra, and now Akastos, glaring at him.

“What's going on, Flea?” Akastos said angrily. “Letting
women
into my smithy? Don't you know that's the worst kind of bad luck?”

“And Dameas knows all about bad luck,” put in Hekabi. “Don't you, Dameas? If that's your name.”

He turned on her. “What's that supposed to mean?”

He towered over her, but she was undaunted. “Something's after you,” she said. “I can smell it. Spirits of air and darkness.”

Not a muscle moved in Akastos' face.

“I could give you a charm to keep them away—for a little while.”

His beard jutted. “I don't take help from a woman who gives medicine to Kreon.”

“And I don't take orders from a man who makes weapons for him. Give me the boy and I'll be on my way.”

“Why would I give you the boy? He stays with me.”

“You have no use for him. I do. Give him to me. I'll be grateful, I might leave you a salve for that hand of yours.” She nodded at his thumb, which was purple and swollen.

“I don't need your help,” he said calmly. Taking an awl, he jabbed it into his thumbnail, releasing a spurt of blood. “That's better,” he said. “Now get out.”

Suddenly, Pirra pushed past Hylas and went to stand between the seer and the smith. “What are you arguing about?” she cried. “We all want the same thing!”

“Who's this?” said Akastos.

“She's my friend,” said Hylas, “she—”

Pirra silenced him with a look. “Hekabi wants to get the Crows off her island,” she told them. “Dameas wants his farm back.”

Akastos shot Hylas another angry glance.

“And I,” Pirra went on, “want to stop them invading Keftiu. Only Hylas wants to run away,” she added with such scorn that he felt the heat surging up his throat. “So why are we arguing? We need to steal the dagger. We have a better chance of succeeding if we act together, not apart.”

“Who
are
you?” repeated Akastos.

Pirra didn't reply. Her color was high, her scar livid on her cheek. She was half his size, but something in her bearing made up for that.

“She's right,” said Hekabi. “And I know how we can do it.”

Akastos folded his arms across his chest. “And you want me to believe that you came up here armed with a plan, even though you had no idea we'd even meet?”

Hekabi smiled thinly. “I'm a seer, remember?”

Akastos studied her. “And in return for your plan?”

“You give me the boy.”

“No one's giving me to anyone!” shouted Hylas.

Akastos glanced from Hekabi to Pirra. Then he opened the pouch at his belt, drew out a buckthorn leaf, and chewed. “I don't trust you,” he told Hekabi, “and we'll see about your plan. But get me into the stronghold, and I'll do the rest.”