The Eye of the Falcon (8 page)

T
he 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. If 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.

“Keftian magic,” spat Kreon, as if he'd guessed Telamon's thoughts. With a thick forefinger he jabbed his nephew's chest. “You'd better be sure about this.”

“I am,” said Telamon with more conviction than he felt.

Soon afterward, Kreon wrapped his cloak about him and threw himself down to sleep. They didn't speak again.

Telamon was restless, so he did the rounds of the camp. Privately, he thought of it as his camp. He was proud of its red wool tents and black-clad warriors—who, after feasting on venison, had turned in, leaving three men on guard.

Once I get the dagger, he thought, you'll take orders from
me
.

He could almost feel the dagger in his hand: the heft of it, the strength it gave its bearer. The first chieftain of the House of Koronos had forged it from the helmet of his slaughtered enemy, and had quenched its burning bronze with blood from his own battle-wounds. So long as the clan possessed it, the House of Koronos could not fall.

“I will get it back,” muttered Telamon. “Not Kreon, but
me
.”

A gust of wind stirred the branches, sending snow hissing onto his shoulders, and he realized that he'd wandered off among the pines. Despite his wolf-fur mantle and fleece-lined boots, cold seeped into his bones—and doubt.

What if I'm wrong? he thought. What if I'm leading us on a fool's errand to a sanctuary guarded by ancient magic?

Earlier, he'd seen a falcon high in the sky. It had reminded him of Pirra. She had a falcon engraved on her sealstone—and a falcon's sharp dark eyes.

And last night she'd dreamed to him. She'd been with Hylas, who was holding the dagger, and she'd put her hand on Hylas' shoulder, and they'd taunted him:
You can't have it!

Telamon had woken with tears on his cheeks, feeling horribly left out. The next moment, he'd been furious and ashamed. How dare they invade his dreams?

He still had the scar on his thigh where Pirra had stabbed him last summer. When he caught her, he would even things up and give
her
a scar, then they would both bear each other's mark.

He hated Pirra, but he couldn't stop thinking about her. What she'd said to him on Thalakrea was burned into his brain.
Hylas is strong, but you're weak. I think you'll always be weak.

He clenched his fists. “You think so, do you?” he muttered. “Well, I'm coming after you, Pirra. And when I find you . . .”

Footsteps crunched in the snow, and Ilarkos loomed behind him, carrying a burning brand. “Thought you might need me, my lord. Not safe on your own with monsters about.”

Telamon stiffened. Ilarkos wouldn't have said that to a full-grown warrior. “Do you really believe there's a monster?” he sneered.

Ilarkos shrugged and touched the bow slung over his shoulder. “Doesn't matter what I believe, long as I got this.” Suddenly he tensed. “What's that?” he hissed.

Telamon followed his gaze—and caught his breath.

Twenty paces away, in the dark beneath a bush, crouched a patch of lighter shadow.

Fear gripped Telamon's heart. But he had to look strong in front of Ilarkos. “It's not a monster,” he breathed. “It—it's a
lion
. Quick, give me your bow!”

“A
lion
?” whispered Ilarkos. “There are no lions on Keftiu!”

“The bow, man, the bow!” The wood was icy to his touch, and his fingers shook as he grabbed an arrow.

The beast in the darkness sensed danger and sprang away—but in the blink of an eye, Telamon had nocked the arrow and let fly. The arrow sang. He heard it strike.