The Eye of the Falcon (18 page)

“Y
ou can't,” said Hylas. “The Crows are going to break in at any moment.”

“That's
why
I've got to do it,” said Pirra. “I'll never get another chance.”

“But Pirra there's no
time!
”

“And if the Sun doesn't come back, there'll be famine, and no time for any of us!”

He stared at her. “You really mean to do this.”

“And I have to do it alone, Hylas. You need to get out while you can.”

“What, and leave you here by yourself?”

“I know Kunisu, the Crows don't. I can hide for long enough to . . . Hylas please! Do this for me.” Now that she'd made up her mind, she was desperate for him to leave. Every moment he stayed made it harder.

He glanced at the slingshot in his hands, then back to her. “Why do
you
have to do it? What about all those priests—”

“They're men. It has to be a priestess—”

“Which you're not!”

“No, but I'm Yassassara's daughter and I know what to do. There's no time to explain, but I know—in here”—she struck her heart with her fist—“that I have to do what my mother would have done if she'd lived. If you want to help me, you have to go!”

He gave her a long searching look. Then his mouth set in a stubborn line. “No. I meant what I said in the mountains. We won't be separated again.”

Pirra drew a breath. “This is different.”

“Why?
”

She couldn't tell him. If he knew, he'd never let her do it.

“No,” he said again. “I'm not leaving you. I'll keep the Crows at bay while you do whatever it is you have to do—then we're getting out of here. Together.”

Pirra halted before the double doors of the High Priestess' innermost chamber. Her heart thudded against her breastbone and the rushlight trembled in her fist.

The doors creaked open at her touch. Outside, the dim gray day had dawned, but the chamber before her was dark. She had never been inside. She dreaded seeing Yassassara's ghost warding her back.

Don't
think about Hylas, she told herself as she shut the doors behind her. But she couldn't help it. He'd told her he was going to set traps for the Crows, and she'd given him hasty directions for finding his way, then they'd parted at the foot of the stairs. So fast. No time to say good-bye.

Don't think about him—or Havoc or Echo. They're behind you now. They're in the past.

Once, she'd seen her mother perform a Mystery, but that had been a far lesser one than this. What she was about to attempt was unlike all other rites. There would be no bull-leaping, no sacrifice of ox or ram, and no watching crowd. This Mystery came from ancient times, when the gods had demanded human life.

She made out a brazier set for a fire, and touched it with the rushlight. Flames leaped, and with a jolt, she saw that everything for the Mystery had been laid out, waiting for her.

The green glass bowl of frankincense, the ivory dishes of ground earth, the rock-crystal phials of sacred oils . . . She realized that on the other side of Kunisu, she would find another brazier on the West Balcony, and the alabaster conch shell for summoning the Goddess.

With a thrill of horror, Pirra stared at the rich robes of Keftian purple laid out on the chest. They still bore the shape of her mother's body. Perhaps Yassassara had been about to begin when the Plague had struck her down—or perhaps she had foreseen that her daughter would stand here now.

Suddenly, Pirra's spirit rebelled. I don't have to do this! I don't even know if I
can
! Why should I forfeit my life if I don't even know it'll work? I'm not going to, I'm going to find Hylas and run away . . .

And then what? said the other part of her mind. Hide out somewhere and watch Keftiu wither and die?

Again she saw the child in the cavern, eking out her last days in hunger and despair.

Setting her teeth, Pirra filled the porphyry basin with seawater from the jar, then hurriedly stripped and washed. Her teeth chattered as she twisted gold wire in her hair and piled it in coils on her head, leaving seven locks snaking down.

In each ivory dish, she mixed oils of hyacinth and myrrh with powders ground from stones of different hues, then painted herself all over: white gypsum on her face and body, red ochre on her palms and the soles of her feet. There. That was for the earth of Keftiu.

For the Sea, she donned Yassassara's heavy skirt of Keftian purple and her tight, open-breasted bodice. She tied her waist with the sacred knot of Sea silk, spun from the red-gold filaments of giant mussels. She sprinkled her robes with oil of Sea lily, and tried not to think about why her bodice bared the heart: to take the knife.

For the sky, she put on anklets, earrings, and wrist-cuffs incised with sacred birds. With trembling hands, she placed her mother's great collar of the Sun about her neck, where it lay heavy and chill against her flesh.

Already the gypsum was stiffening on her face, and when she touched her cheek, she couldn't feel her scar. The earth of Keftiu had hidden it and rendered her perfect, as befitted a vessel for the Goddess.

From downstairs came a muffled squawk that she recognized as Echo—followed by Hylas' voice, sounding annoyed. She shut her eyes. Don't think about them. He'll look after Echo. He'll teach her to hunt.

Taking a brush made of the tip of a squirrel's tail and trying not to meet her gaze in her mother's bronze mirror, she painted her eyelids with henna and poppy juice—so that she might see with the eyes of the Goddess. She painted the tips of her ears red—that she might hear with the ears of the Goddess, and her lips—that she might speak with the voice of the Goddess.

She hesitated. Only one thing missing now.

The ebony box lay open to reveal the knife. It was silver, the blade enamelled with a blue dolphin leaping over black waves. Pirra didn't want to touch it. When she did, she would be ready: to descend to the Hall of Whispers and twine the sacred snakes about her arms, and wake the gods of the underworld . . .

To cross the Great Court and climb to the Upper Chamber and burn frankincense for the gods of the sky . . .

Last of all, to blow the alabaster conch shell and beg the Goddess to bring back the Sun: to raise the knife and complete the Mystery . . .

Footsteps echoed as Hylas came running upstairs.

Pirra took the knife and slid it into the gilded sheath at her hip. Make him pass without stopping. Don't let me see him, or I won't have the strength to go through with this.

He stopped outside the double doors. They creaked as he pushed them open.

“Hylas don't—” she said over her shoulder.

It wasn't Hylas.

It was Telamon.

F
or a heartbeat, Telamon thought one of the painted goddesses had stepped down from the walls.

Then he saw that it was Pirra—and yet not Pirra: an alien priestess in a tight open-breasted bodice and flowing skirts the color of crushed grapes. Gold snakes coiled in her hair, and her flesh glittered eerily white. Her black eyes regarded him coldly, without fear. He didn't dare touch her. And he knew that she knew it too.

“You don't belong here,” she said levelly. “Get out while you still can.”

The power in her voice made his skin prickle. “I came for what's mine,” he croaked. “Give me the dagger.”

She spread her hands, and from her skirts rose a dizzying fragrance. “I don't have it,” she said.

“I don't believe you.”

“I don't care. Get out while you can.
Crow
.”

He bridled. “I'm the grandson of Koronos, my blood's as good as yours.”

Her red lips curved in a smile that made his face burn. “You're an Akean,” she said. “We Keftians were pouring libations in the Great Court when you were still living in caves.”

“Hylas is Akean too,” he said.

“And isn't it odd? He's a goatherd, you're a chieftain's son—and yet he's all that's best in Akea, and you're all that's worst.” Her glance flicked to his wrist, where her sealstone hung beside his; then to the gold plaques on his belt, which had once been hers. “You Crows know how to chop things up, but you can't create.”

“We know how to conquer,” he retorted. “You Keftians can't even defend yourselves! It only took two of my men to scale the wall and open the gates.”

If she was dismayed, she hid it well. “Poor Telamon,” she said with mock pity. “Do you imagine that you can conquer us with
warriors
? Kunisu has stood since the dawn of time! We have other ways of defending ourselves. Leave now, before you find out what they are.”

His courage wavered. They'd found it suspiciously easy to break into the House of the Goddess, but once inside, they'd been unnerved by its twisting passages and walls that turned out to be screens masking sudden lethal drops; and by the dreadful bellowing of some underground monster.

“It's as if they don't
need
to keep us out,” Kreon had muttered. “And now that we're inside . . .” Soon after, Telamon had lost his way and found himself alone.
Now that we're inside . . .

From far off came shouts, the clash of weapons, then silence. Pirra gave a start. She recovered fast, but the spell was broken.

She's no priestess, Telamon thought savagely. She's just a frightened girl. “I've had enough of your tricks,” he snarled. “I want the dagger and I want Hylas, now!”

“No,” she said. But her shoulders were high, and he saw a vein beating in her throat.

“Why defend him?” he demanded. “What's he to you?” He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her. Can't you see that I'm better than him? Stronger, handsomer, richer! How
dare
you prefer him to me!

“It's over, Pirra,” he said. “I've won. My men will search every corner till they find him. Give me the dagger and I won't hurt you—but forget about Hylas. There's nothing you can do for him now.”

Pirra forced herself to meet his gaze. Then, very deliberately, she turned her back on him.

She felt his eyes on her as she touched a reed to the brazier, then to the frankincense in the green glass bowl. Would he guess that she was playing for time—racking her brains for some means of escape, while straining her ears for some hint that Hylas had gotten away?

“Give me the dagger,” repeated Telamon.

As the frankincense caught, an idea came to her. It was horribly risky, but there was no other way. With the bowl in both hands, she faced him. “What will you do if I don't?”

Telamon's eyes narrowed. With his cloak flung back and his dagger in his fist, he looked terrifyingly strong. She would never outrun him, or get a chance to draw the silver knife at her hip. Her only weapon was his unease.

In the green glass bowl, flames licked the little crystalline lumps of the sacred resin, sending up twisting threads of sour black smoke. Pirra blew them out, and instantly the smoke turned white, as she'd known it would, and the chamber filled with the astonishing perfume of frankincense. “What will you do?” she repeated softly.

Telamon rearranged his fingers on his dagger. His face was flushed, and beads of sweat stood out on his upper lip.

Holding the bowl before her so that he saw her through the perfumed haze, Pirra backed deeper into the chamber.

He came after her. “Oh no, don't think you can run away.”

“I'm not,” she replied. “You are in the forbidden chamber of the High Priestess. It's you who should run away.”

By the brazier's dying glow, she saw him take in the painted goddesses on the walls, making sacrifices and summoning hawks and lions to do their will. She took another step back. Behind her were three doorways, each hidden behind a hanging embroidered in poisonous greens and stinging yellows. All opened onto a dark windowless passage where gaps in the parapet showed glimpses of a shadowy corner of Kunisu, two stories below.

Telamon's eyes darted in alarm from one door to the next.

“What's behind these doors?” said Pirra in a low voice. “What Keftian magic lies in wait for the intruder?”

“You can't frighten me,” he muttered.

She forced a smile. “But you are frightened. No man may enter here.” She passed the smoking bowl before his face, and he recoiled with a gasp. “Did you think we'd leave Kunisu unprotected?” she whispered. “The Goddess won't forgive you for this!”

He lifted his chin. “I'm not afraid. Your Goddess has abandoned Keftiu. And I have the favor of the Angry Ones.”

“Then where are they? All Keftiu is covered in ash, and yet the Angry Ones are nowhere—because my mother banished them! Her magic is vastly stronger than your spirits!”

“Yassassara's dead,” he said thickly.

“But her spells live on.” She wafted another gust of frankincense in his face, and as he drew back, she seized her chance and fled: through the middle doorway and into the dimness beyond.

With a shout Telamon came after her, as she'd hoped he would. Swiftly she side-stepped, but he blundered ahead, didn't see the gap in the parapet—and stepped out onto empty air.

He made no sound as he fell, but she heard the thud as he hit the ground. Setting the bowl on the parapet, she leaned over.

Telamon sprawled on the stones below. He wasn't moving. Pirra couldn't tell if he was injured or dead. As she breathed in the frankincense, it seemed to cut her loose from herself, so that she felt neither guilt nor remorse. “I warned you,” she said.

Picking up the bowl, she returned to the chamber. She set the bowl on the table and took the silver pitcher her mother's priests had put ready, and filled the obsidian goblet with poppy juice and pomegranate wine.

She drank. She was no longer Pirra. She was a vessel for the Shining One.

Lighting another rushlight, she opened the double doors and started for the Hall of Whispers, to begin the Mystery.