The Burning Shadow (17 page)

P
irra and Hekabi had gone ahead, and had already reached the steps to the stronghold. Hylas craned his neck at the crows wheeling about it like flakes of black ash.

He felt sick with dread. Kreon was within those walls, along with his deadly brother and sister, Pharax and Alekto—and the High Chieftain himself.
Koronos
. The very name cast a shadow on the heart.

“Keep up,” muttered Akastos. “And don't even think about trying to escape. Those overseers will have you down the pit faster than you can crack a whip.” He was wearing his mask, and to prevent the Crows recognizing his voice, he'd given out that he'd scorched his throat in an accident. “That's why you're coming,” he'd told Hylas. “You'll speak for me.”

“
Please
don't make me,” said Hylas for the tenth time. “If I go in there, I'll never come out.”

“Yes you will.”

“Someone will recognize me.”

“Only Telamon knows what you look like, and you say he won't betray you.”

Hylas made to protest, but they were passing a troop of Crow warriors, and Akastos shot him a warning glance.

Hylas was trapped, and all the signs were bad. The smoke pouring from the Mountain had thickened and turned gray. Even the sunset looked wrong, the sky a sickly yellow streaked with poisonous green. You didn't need to be a seer to know that this was going to be a disaster.

“On the first night of the Moon's dark,” Hekabi had told them, “Koronos will seek to invoke the Angry Ones, drawing them to Thalakrea to subdue the Lady. The rite will be in three parts. First the sacrifice—that'll be secret—then the feast. Lastly, the reading of the smoke. I've made Kreon believe that for the feast, the meat of sacrifice must be burned on a special fire: one kindled here in the forge, and brought by the master smith himself.”

So. The plan. Akastos and his slave Hylas would take the fire to Koronos, while Hekabi and
her
slave Pirra would help with the smoke-reading. At a sign from Akastos, Hekabi would pretend to throw a fit, thus distracting the Crows. Then,
somehow,
Akastos would steal the dagger, and
somehow,
they would all escape before the Crows discovered it was gone.

Hylas thought this plan had more holes than a fishing net, but he couldn't get Akastos to see that. At the last moment, though, the smith seemed to have had second thoughts, because he was bringing two of his mute slaves, bearing a large covered basket. When Hylas asked what was in it, Akastos was evasive. “Let's just say that if the wisewoman lets us down, I'll create a distraction of my own.”

The steps to the stronghold were steep, and Akastos went in front. He wore leather gauntlets, and he carried a pottery bowl with a bronze one inside, which held embers from the forge. Hylas could see the tension in his shoulders. Hekabi had given him a pouch with a charm to disguise him from the Angry Ones; but he didn't put much faith in it. He was dreading an encounter with the spirits who had pursued him for so long.

Glancing down, Hylas was alarmed to see that already the mines lay far below. They were crawling with slaves, like an ant's nest smashed open. Kreon had ordered all tunnels cleared, and even deeper ones dug. There had been tremors. Everyone knew the Mountain was angry. But Kreon believed the Lady of Fire could be placated by force.

In a low voice, Hylas asked Akastos if he thought the Crows' rite would succeed in invoking the Angry Ones.

“It might,” Akastos said grimly. “But if the Crows think they can gain their favor, they're wrong. No one gains the favor of the Angry Ones.”

Hylas climbed on with his head down, breathing in the stink of carrion and a sulfurous whiff from the Mountain. He couldn't see how he was going to get out of this alive. And he was worried about Havoc. He'd left her tethered behind the smithy; if he didn't return, she would starve. But if, by some amazing stroke of luck, he found his way back to the smithy and met Telamon as planned, how could he carry a struggling lion cub down the cliff?

A sound above him, and he was startled to see Pirra on the next step. She was holding out a leather cap. “Your hair,” she said. “The charcoal's wearing off.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Side by side, they mounted the steps in silence. Pirra looked pale and tired. Hylas wondered if she'd slept as badly as he.

“Are you really going through with this?” she said in a low voice. “Are you really going to run away?”

He flushed. “Doesn't look like I'll get the chance, does it?”

“I mean, if this works and we . . . If this works.”

“Then yes,” he said curtly. “I'm really going through with it.”

Her brow furrowed. “I thought you were
better
than this.”

That hurt. “You'd do the same thing if you had a sister,” he muttered.

“No I wouldn't.”

“Oh no? What about that slave of yours—Userref? You said he's like a brother to you. Well what would you do if he was in danger and you could save him? What would you do, Pirra?”

She didn't reply.

They climbed on in prickly silence. Suddenly Pirra turned and put her hand on his shoulder. “Good-bye, Hylas,” she said in a strangled voice. “I hope you find your sister.”

“Pirra, don't be—”

But she'd gone, running up the steps to join Hekabi.

Hylas didn't go after her. He felt churned up and
angry
. He didn't know if he was angry with Pirra or himself.

For a second time, Pirra passed through the gates of Kreon's stronghold, between the great stone walls twenty cubits thick. For a second time, her breath echoed clammily in the passages.

She wished Hekabi hadn't insisted on going ahead of the others. She kept thinking there must be
something
she could say to bring Hylas around. It wasn't possible that she'd just said good-bye to him forever.

A shadowy figure stepped from a doorway and grabbed her arm.

“Leave her alone,” snapped Hekabi, “she's with me.”

“She'll catch up with you,” retorted Telamon. Barking at the guards to go on without them, he pulled Pirra into a windowless side-chamber lit by a sputtering torch.

“What do you want?” she spat as she twisted out of his grip.

“What are you
doing
here?” he demanded.

“I'm Hekabi's slave, remember? And in case you're thinking of telling them who I am, I wouldn't. Then we'd have to wed.”

“I'd rather wed a leper.”

“Then we agree on something,” she said crisply, although she spoke with more assurance than she felt. Telamon was prowling the chamber. He looked frighteningly strong. She thought of her obsidian knife, which she'd strapped to her thigh, under her tunic. But he'd be on her before she could untie it.

“
Why
did he come?” he burst out.

“Don't worry,” she said scornfully. “He'll meet you at the smithy, just like you planned.”

His jaw dropped. “He told you about that?”

“He's my friend. He tells me things.” She paused to let that sink in. “What about you?” she said in a hard voice. “Why are you helping him?”

A Crow warrior appeared in the doorway. “The High Chieftain is asking for you, my lord.”

“Get out!” shouted Telamon. But Pirra saw the sweat beading his forehead.

He's scared, she thought. Scared of his own kin.

Despite herself, she felt a flicker of sympathy. She'd been frightened of her mother for as long as she could remember.

Telamon planted himself before her, clenching and unclenching his fists. She saw the muscles in his arms and shoulders. She stared past him, refusing to be threatened.

“I need to know what's happening,” he said. “Look at me, Pirra.
Look
at me! Why is he really here, in the stronghold? Why tonight?”

She met his eyes. “Why don't you ask him?”

“The smith won't let me near him. If I insisted, I'd make people suspicious.”

“There's nothing I can do about that.”

With a snarl he punched the wall near her head, making her flinch. He was breathing hard, grinding his fist into the stone.

“Telamon,” she said as calmly as she could, “let me go. I need to get back to the wisewoman.”

For a moment he stared down at her and she stared back, determined to stand her ground.

“You asked why I'm helping him,” he said quietly. “We were like brothers. He's the only friend I've ever had.”

Me too, Pirra thought bleakly.

“If I do nothing, I betray him,” Telamon went on. “If I help him, I betray my kin. But if I can just get him off the island, I'll be free of him forever. I'll never have to face this again.”

“Do you really believe that?” said Pirra.

He threw her an agonized look. “
Why
is this happening? I never asked for any of it!”

“So what?” said Pirra. “I didn't ask to be bargained off by my mother like a jar of olives—”

“You're a girl, that's what you're for.”

Her sympathy for him vanished. “It doesn't matter
why
it's happening,” she said coldly. “What counts is what you do about it. Don't let him down.”

He bristled. “Why would I?”

“Because you're a Crow.”

“How dare you call me that! We're a proud and ancient clan!”

“And do you worship who they do?” she said. “Do you, Telamon?”

He swallowed. “No.”

“Really? At your uncle's funeral pyre, I saw you smear your face with ash.”

“That was out of respect for the dead.”

“Then why are you here now, when they're going to invoke the Angry Ones?”

“That's nothing to do with me, I'm taking no part in it!”

“But you're not trying to stop them.”

“How could I?” In the torchlight he was very handsome, with his strong jaw and his dark, glittering eyes; but Pirra thought there was a softness to his upper lip.

She said, “I think you became friends with Hylas because he's strong and you're weak. I think, Telamon, that you'll always be weak.”

He glared at her with sudden hatred. “And I think it's time we sent you back to Keftiu.”

“If you did that, we'd have to—”

“Oh there'll be no match, I'll make sure of it. You'll be returned to your mother for her to punish as she sees fit.” He took her arm in a grip that was painfully strong. “Come with me. There's someone you should see.”

T
wo warriors marched toward Hylas and he flattened himself against the wall. As they swept past, he caught the creak of rawhide and the stink of ash. His belly clenched. He was in the very stronghold of the Crows.

Akastos and the slaves were somewhere behind. In front, he could see Hekabi—but no Pirra. Had she gone on ahead?

The way she'd looked at him . . .
I thought you were
better
than this
.

Hekabi halted before a doorway shrouded in red.

“Where's Pirra?” he whispered.

“Sh!” she hissed.

Akastos and the slaves caught up with them, then the guards drew back the hanging and pushed them inside.

The chamber was dimly lit by smoky lamps at either end. In the gloom, Hylas made out a window hidden by a screen, and on the wall, the pelt of an enormous lion; he guessed it was what remained of Havoc's father. In the middle of the chamber stood a great bronze tripod piled with unlit charcoal. The air crackled with the aftermath of sacrifice. A black arc across the rush-strewn floor showed where a carcass had been dragged away.

A shadowy woman circled the tripod, dipping her fingers in a small crystal bowl and flicking oil on the charcoal. Hylas couldn't see her face, but from Pirra's description, he guessed this was Alekto. She wore a robe of strange shimmering stuff as fine as spiders' webs. Gold clinked at her wrists and ankles, and in her hair nested a diadem of gold spikes.

A warrior squatted by the tripod, spearing chunks of flesh from a heap on the floor and laying them on the charcoal. This must be Pharax. He wore a plain tunic with a studded swordbelt across the chest, but he wasn't using his sword to spear the meat, he was using the dagger of Koronos. Hylas knew it even in the dark. He felt its call. Beside him, he heard Akastos catch his breath.

A third man emerged from the murk. Kreon wore a mantle of red wool and a headband of hammered gold, but he seemed ill at ease, his face slick with sweat. “Is that the fire?” he snapped.

“Yes, my lord,” replied Hekabi.

“This had better work.” He jerked his head at Akastos, who emptied the embers onto the tripod. The oil-soaked charcoal caught, and in the leaping light, the shadows of the Crows reared to the rafters.

Alekto circled Akastos and Hylas, trailing a sweet smell with an acrid undertow of ash. “Why does the smith wear a mask?” she asked coldly. She was young, and so beautiful that Hylas could hardly look at her; but her great dark eyes were as empty of feeling as two holes cut in marble.

Akastos nudged him in the ribs.

“A-an accident at the forge,” he stammered. “Scars too dreadful to be seen.”

Alekto shuddered. “Get him out of my sight, I loathe ugly things.”

“The smith stays,” snarled Kreon.

“Can't he speak for himself?” said Pharax, rising to his feet.

“The f-fire scorched his throat,” said Hylas. “I must speak for him.”

Pharax took that in silence. He was leaner than his brother, and far more frightening. There was a peculiar fixity to his stare, and his free hand was half clenched, as if to grasp an unseen weapon.

“Why is the wisewoman here?” said Alekto with a frown.

“I need her to read the smoke,” said Kreon. “I have to know this has worked. Or to put it another way, Alekto, she's here because I wish it.”

His sister gave him a mocking bow. “So masterful,” she murmured.

Kreon glowered at her, and Pharax barked a laugh. He'd been cleaning the dagger with rushes, and now he laid it in a narrow chest of dark wood that stood on a bench behind the tripod. His hand lingered on the lid, as if he wanted to claim the dagger for his own.

Telamon ran in, mumbling an apology.

“You're late,” growled Kreon.

Telamon saw Hylas and glanced away. “I'm sorry, Uncle,” he said again.

“He was with a slave girl,” taunted Alekto. “A scrawny one with a scar. Nephew, what taste!”

Pirra,
thought Hylas. He threw Telamon a furious look, but Telamon gave a faint shake of the head. What did
that
mean?

“And will our nephew join us in the feast?” said Pharax with an edge to his voice.

“I doubt it,” said Alekto, enjoying Telamon's discomfort. “He's only a boy, he can't take strong meat.”

Strong meat
, thought Hylas. What had they sacrificed?

Then Alekto saw someone in the doorway, and the mockery died on her lips. Pharax and Kreon stiffened, and the flames in the tripod seemed to sink.

An old man entered the chamber, attended by four terrified slaves. He wore the purple tunic and white goatskin mantle of the High Chieftain, secured at the shoulder by a gold cloakpin the size of a clenched fist. Age had silvered his beard and scraped the hair from his skull, but instead of weakening him, it had turned him to granite. Fear flowed in his wake, and like the wolf who leads the pack, he regarded no one, but gazed stonily over their heads.

Pharax, Kreon, and Alekto put their hands to their breasts and bowed. “Koronos,” they murmured. Telamon did the same.

The slaves set down more benches covered with black sheepskins, put vessels on a three-legged table, then fled. Kreon approached his father, but Koronos drove him back with a cut of his hand, and took his seat on the central bench.

Hekabi cast Akastos an anguished look. The High Chieftain sat directly in front of the chest that held the dagger. There was no point feigning a fit now, it might as well be at the bottom of the Sea.

“What do we do?” whispered Hylas.

“We wait,” breathed Akastos.

On the tripod, the meat of sacrifice was turning black, hazing the air with bitter smoke.

Alekto took a pitcher and poured water over her father's hands, then dried them with a cloth. She was trembling, and she made sure not to touch his flesh with her own.

Pharax grasped a tall vessel of polished obsidian and filled an earthenware cup so fine the firelight glowed through it. The liquid was red and thick: Hylas guessed it was blood and wine. With pounding heart, he watched Koronos drink. Hooded eyes like a lizard's. A slow pale tongue that slid out to lick a lipless mouth.

Kreon offered the High Chieftain a bronze platter of burned meat, and he ate one morsel. His fingernails were stained black and cut to points, and on his thumb he wore a ring of gray metal; Hylas guessed this was iron. “Now you, grandson,” he said stonily.

The others waited.

Telamon licked his lips. He reached for a piece of meat and put it in his mouth.

Koronos nodded once, then ordered his sons and daughter to eat.

The Crows seated themselves and fell on the burned meat, snatching chunks and snapping it up with their sharp black talons. Hylas saw grease glinting in Kreon's beard, and a fleck of charred skin caught between Alekto's white teeth.

Again the High Chieftain drank, then flung the cup to the floor, shattering it to pieces. Hekabi had said that Koronos only used new vessels, and only ever once.

Hylas must have flinched at the noise, because Koronos saw him. Hylas bowed his head. He felt the lizard gaze sweep over him with the force of lightning. He swayed. This man had decreed the slaughter of all Outsiders. Because of him, Issi was missing, maybe dead . . .

A strong hand gripped his shoulder, and Akastos breathed in his ear: “Soon. I'll tell you what to say.”

The Crows were daubing their cheeks with ash. The feast was over. It was time to read the smoke, to tell if the rite had worked.

With his sword, Pharax struck the bronze bowl that had held the embers, making it sing. Alekto began to chant, circling the tripod and crushing hemlock beneath her glistening feet.

Koronos rose and held his hands palms upward over the tripod.

Still chanting, Alekto took the obsidian vessel and poured a red stream over her father's hands and onto the charcoal, raising hissing clouds of smoke. The liquid that touched his fingertips was for the gods, that flowing between his fingers for the Ancestors, and that in his palms—which was most of it—was for the spirits whose true names not even Koronos dared utter aloud: the Angry Ones.

The vessel was empty, and Alekto withdrew. Koronos leaned forward, breathing the smoke. Hekabi moved closer, to read the signs.

In the silence, Hylas heard the crackle of embers and the whisper of breath. He clutched the lion claw on his chest. Beside him, Akastos gripped the pouch that held Hekabi's charm.

The lamps flickered and died. Now only the glimmer from the tripod held back the dark. The hairs on Hylas' arms rose. His flesh went cold.

Suddenly a fierce wind gusted through the window. The screen fell with a crash. Hylas sank to his knees. As the wind whirled around the chamber, he saw a deeper darkness: vast winged shadows that froze his heart with dread. He screwed his eyes shut, but he could still see them, their nightmare heads burned black by the fires of Chaos, their raw red mouths like gaping wounds . . .

Then they were gone, obliterating the stars as they sped toward the Mountain.

At last he opened his eyes.

The smoke had cleared. In the ember-glow, he saw Hekabi standing aghast. “It worked,” she gasped. “They've come.”

Telamon looked appalled. Kreon wiped the sweat off his brow. Pharax beat his chest with his fist in triumph, and Koronos' stony grip tightened on his knees.

“Didn't you hear me?” Akastos whispered to Hylas. “Tell them what I just said!
Now!
It's our chance!”

But Hylas couldn't move, he was still frozen with dread.

With a snarl, Akastos pushed him aside. “Dameas the smith,” he croaked in a hoarse whisper, “brings Koronos a gift to honor his triumph over the Lady of Fire.” Then he withdrew into the shadows, and his slaves stepped forward. The Crows turned toward them, watching intently as they set down the covered basket before the tripod and pulled off the cloth.

Telamon gave a start, and the children of Koronos peered at the smith's gift. The High Chieftain didn't stir.

With a cry, Hylas sprang forward, but Hekabi held him back. “Hush!” she whispered in his ear. “Don't draw attention to yourself!”

The cage was so cramped that Havoc couldn't turn around. Her muzzle was bound with a strip of rawhide to keep her quiet, and she was shaking with terror.

Kreon glanced at Hekabi. “What do we do with it?”

Hylas saw the hard cruel faces bent on Havoc's cage. He felt Hekabi's fingers digging into his shoulders. “That's for you to decide, my lord,” she said.

Kreon licked his lips.

Pharax went to the chest and lifted the lid. Firelight glinted redly on the dagger of Koronos. “It's a sacrifice,” he said. “We kill it, of course.”