The Eye of the Falcon (7 page)

T
he boy stood at the mouth of his lair, peering into the Dark. He couldn't see her, the lion cub was certain.

Was
it the boy who'd looked after her long ago?

When she'd caught his scent lower down the mountain, it had scratched at her heart and she'd been desperate to go to him. Fear had taken over—but she hadn't been able to make herself leave, so she'd followed him through the not-Light and into the Dark. She'd even padded into his lair and sniffed him while he slept. She still didn't know if it was him.

His scent had changed. It was more like that of a full-grown man, and he also smelled strongly of sheep, which was odd. He never used to smell of sheep.

He looked different too. He was broader, and as tall as a tree. Worst of all, he didn't
sound
like the boy she had known; his voice was much deeper.

As the lion cub went off to hunt, her wariness grew. This boy was scared of her, but the boy who'd looked after her long ago had never been scared.

And the boy in the lair had lashed out at her with fire and his big shiny claw. So even if he
was
the same boy, he had become like all the others.

He was just another human. And the lion cub would never trust a human, not ever again.

Was it really Havoc? wondered Hylas as he followed the paw prints through the snow.

He'd glimpsed a young lion. But had he really seen that scar on her nose? Even if he had, lots of lions had scars.

He tried to remember if Pirra had ever said there were lions on Keftiu. He thought she'd said there weren't, but if he was wrong . . .

One thing was certain: Those paw prints in the cave were real. While he slept, she'd stood right over him. Surely no other lion would have done that?

It began to snow. To the west, the slope fell away to a forested saddle that looked as if it led to the peak of Mount Dikti. Pirra was somewhere up there; but the trail of paw prints climbed
south,
toward a rocky ridge that led away from the peak.

Pirra needed him—but so did Havoc. The lion cub was only a yearling; she couldn't survive for long with no pride to help her hunt. And it was his fault that she was here on Keftiu.

Hylas rubbed his chin and stomped in circles. If this snow kept up, those tracks wouldn't last long. He blew out a long breath. “I'm sorry, Pirra,” he said out loud. “I will come and find you. But I have to find Havoc first.”

He hadn't climbed far up the ridge when he came upon a grimy little pus-eater glaring down at him from a boulder.

His breath smoked in the frosty air, and around him the pines stood watchful and silent.

By now he'd learned that Keftians put pus-eaters not only by dwellings, but also by tombs, to catch the Plague wafting from the newly dead. Sure enough, a little farther on, he spotted a small tomb cut into the ridge. Whoever had sealed it had been in a hurry. Stones had been clawed away from the entrance, and to judge from the harsh croaks of ravens, the corpse inside had been dragged out by hungry scavengers.

A dreadful thought occurred to Hylas. Had Havoc become a man-eater?

His boots crunched in the stillness as he detoured around the pus-eater and followed the paw prints toward the tomb. Ravens flew away with loud caws, and a fox slunk off.

Havoc didn't. She lay tensely on her belly with her head between her shoulder blades. Watching him.

It was her. She'd doubled in size since last year, and her fur was thick and shaggy, but he saw how thin she was underneath. She was still a cub—a gawky yearling—who must have survived by scavenging what she could. Was that why she'd hunkered down near the bones of the human dead?

No
, thought Hylas.
I won't believe it. She can't be a man-eater, not Havoc.

“Havoc?” he called softly. “It's me, Hylas. Do you remember me?”

Havoc lashed her tail and hissed, baring huge white fangs. Her eyes were colder than he'd ever seen them, and she stared at him without recognition.

“Havoc, what's happened to you?”

Her huge claws kneaded the snow, as if she was getting ready to spring.

His hand went to his knife. This can't be, he thought.

With a snarl she sprang away and vanished like a ghost among the pines.

“Havoc!” he shouted.

She didn't come back. She hadn't recognized him.

The lion cub fled up the mountain with the boy's yowls fading behind her. It was him, she was sure of it. She remembered his eyes and his lion-colored mane—and she sensed the lion in his spirit. But he'd changed, she was sure of that too. He was almost a man. And she would never trust a human, not ever again.

As she slowed to a trot, things clawed at her heart that made her snarl. She remembered lying with her head on his legs while he scratched behind her ears. And climbing trees and getting stuck, and him helping her down.

The Bright Soft Cold was hissing harder now, and the wind was beginning to growl. How would the boy survive? There were bears and wolves on the mountain, and like all humans, he was puny. If anything hurt him . . .

The lion cub spun around and raced back down the slope.

When she caught the boy's scent, she slowed to a walk. She couldn't go near him, but she could follow him and make sure that he came to no harm. And at least it would be easy to stay hidden; like all humans, he didn't notice much and couldn't smell.

The not-Light gave way to the Dark again, and the Bright Soft Cold pelted the mountain. The wind howled in fury—and still the cub followed, slitting her eyes against the storm.

The boy was in trouble. He was staggering, and his furless face was turning gray. The lion cub knew that despite his sheep-like overpelt, he couldn't just curl up under a boulder as she could, and sleep till the wind calmed down.

If she didn't lead him to safety, he would die.

You should've known better, Hylas told himself as he struggled through the blizzard.

He'd grown up in mountains and survived countless blizzards. Why hadn't he had more sense? At the first sign of a storm, he should've found shelter, woken a fire, and waited it out; but in his eagerness to find Havoc, he'd plodded on, and now night was falling and he was so cold that his thoughts were beginning to blur. If he didn't get under cover fast, he would die.

A flash of movement between the trees—and there was Havoc, not ten paces away, watching him.

“
Havoc,
” he mumbled, but his voice was lost in the screaming wind.

Havoc turned and headed off at a muscular trot with her tail held high. She glanced back. Did she want him to follow?

Knee-deep, he floundered after her. Again she waited, then trotted off, her tail-tuft showing black against the snow.

And so it went for an endless time. Snow stung Hylas' face, and every step became a struggle. At last he halted, panting and swaying. He caught a whiff of woodsmoke.
Woodsmoke?
Out here?

Havoc returned and lifted her head, as if to say
Hurry up
.

Nearly spent, Hylas labored on for a few more steps. Between the trees, he glimpsed a blocky shadow.
A hut
.

A few more steps and he made out a small hide window: a glowing red kernel of warmth in the freezing darkness of the storm. He staggered toward it. Couldn't take another step. He shouted, but the roar of the storm drowned his voice. He sank to his knees. He couldn't reach the door, he was spent.

He lay on his back, watching the snow hurtling toward him out of the black night sky. But now through the whirling whiteness, two great amber eyes were gazing down at him. “Havoc,” he croaked.

Warm meaty breath heated his face. A big black nose brushed his cheek, and he felt the prickle of whiskers. Clumsily, he put up his hand and clutched shaggy fur.

“Havoc . . .”

The door creaked open and firelight washed over him.

Havoc slipped from his grip and fled into the night just before Hylas blacked out.

H
ylas is dreaming that someone's brushing snow off his face.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Flea,” growls the man in the dream. “Mountain boy like you, getting caught in a snowstorm!”

That voice: strong, smooth, startlingly familiar. Hylas' heart leaps. “
Akastos?
”

“Shut up and drink this.” A spout is jammed between Hylas' teeth, and he chokes on vinegary wine. He can't see, but he's sure it's Akastos: wanderer, blacksmith, exile, murderer haunted by the spirits of vengeance. Hylas admires him more than any man he's ever met. He doesn't want this dream to end.

“Stop grinning, Flea, you're dribbling.”

Hylas gives a spluttery laugh. It's so good to hear the nickname Akastos gave him once. If only this dream would last . . .

He woke up. Akastos was still there. “It's really you!” cried Hylas.

“Well of course it is,” snapped Akastos.

He was sitting on a log by a roaring fire. Steam rose from his sheepskins and his grimy fur cloak, and snow speckled his beard and his long, dark tangled hair. His light-gray eyes were as keen as ever, and fixed suspiciously on Hylas. “Why were you following me?” he demanded.

Hylas struggled to sit up. “I wasn't. I didn't even know you were on Keftiu, I was following Havoc—”

“
Havoc?
” Akastos was startled. “That lion cub is on Keftiu?”

“She led me here, she must have known it was you. She saved me . . .” He trailed off. It was warm in the hut, but outside, the blizzard was raging, the wind roaring in the pines, making the roof beams creak. Havoc was out there alone.

“A lion led you to me,” murmured Akastos, scratching his beard in a gesture Hylas remembered. “I wonder what that means.”

“I don't know, but I'm glad she did. And I'm
really
glad you got away from Thalakrea!”

Akastos sighed. “I suppose I'm glad you did too, Flea.”

“Why only suppose?”

The wanderer stared at him. “How can you ask?
Fifteen years
I've been on the run from the Crows. I had
one chance
to kill a highborn Crow.
One chance
to destroy the dagger of Koronos. What happens? You. And you think I'd be glad to see you?”

“Then why rescue me?” Hylas said sulkily.

“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 gentleness.

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.