The Eye of the Falcon (16 page)

He worried about Havoc. She would never dare follow him in here, and she wouldn't understand why he'd gone. She would think he'd abandoned her all over again.

More passages, more rooms. “Workshops,” said Pirra.

“Who works in them?”

“Oh, weavers, potters, seal-cutters, gold-workers . . .”

“How do you find your way in all this?”

She gave him a grim smile. “I've spent my whole life in here. I've had nothing to do but find my way.”

Strange images leaped out at him from the workshops. A ceiling furred with a colony of sleeping bats, like lumpy black fruit. A pile of giant eggs, each bigger than a child's head, and a stack of what appeared to be enormous tusks, taller than a man.

“The eggs are from a bird,” said Pirra, “I think it's called ostrich. The tusks are ivory, from Egypt, some kind of monster. There's an ivory god with golden hair in the Hall of Whispers . . .”

Whispers, whispers,
echoed the walls.

“We'll take a shortcut across the Great Court,” she said, pushing open a door and leading him out into daylight.

He found himself in a vast open space floored in yellow with a dizzying pattern of blue ivy leaves. The walls all around were two stories high, with gilded doors and tall windows, more red guardian columns, and a vast painted crowd, watching him.

Everywhere he turned, he saw haughty men and pale women of staggering beauty, with dark almond-shaped eyes that reminded him of Pirra's. They looked so real that he felt they were only waiting for him to leave, so that they could start talking about him.
What's that Outsider doing here?

At the heart of the Great Court stood an olive tree in a huge gilded pot—and at the north end, a giant double axe of gleaming bronze, mounted on a pedestal of purple stone before a yawning darkness.

“That's the ramp leading down to the understory,” said Pirra.

“You mean—there's
more,
underneath?”

Again that mirthless smile. “Oh, yes. Above us too.” She pointed to a ledge high on the west wall. “That's the balcony where my mother stands. I mean—stood.”

Hylas licked his lips. “What do they do out here?”

“Bull-leaping. Dancing. Sacrifices. Sometimes, when my mother was away, Userref used to give me rides in the chariot . . .” She frowned. “Come on. Nearly there.”

Another passage, this one painted with deer as big as real ones. Hylas glimpsed a buck about to twitch a fly off its ear, and a dormouse on a barley spike, its painted tail curled around the stem.

Pirra had disappeared round a corner. He ran to catch up—and came face-to-face with a bull.

“Pirra, watch out!” he yelled, whipping out his axe.

“It's all right, it's not real!”

The wild bull was even bigger than the one he'd encountered in the foothills, and it was charging with its head down. Hylas took in its bulging shoulder muscles and thick lolling tongue. Some god had turned it to stone as it half emerged from the wall.

“
Looks
real,” he muttered, ashamed at being fooled.

“When I was little,” said Pirra, “I used to think it came alive at night.”

Maybe it does, thought Hylas as he edged past, trying not to catch the bull's bloodshot red eye.

They reached a dim windowless chamber guarded by more broad-shouldered columns. Hylas' rushlight revealed painted fishes on the walls, a splendid claw-footed bench of gilded wood, a scarlet rug sewn with blue swallows, a tall lamp of purple marble, and a cedarwood chest inlaid with ivory panels.

He swallowed. “Is this where the Goddess lives?”

Pirra snorted. “Course not, it's just my room.”

Her
room
? He was aghast. He'd always known she was rich. He'd never pictured this.

“The dagger's over there behind a wall panel,” muttered Pirra. “Hold my light while I—” She broke off.

“What is it?” said Hylas.

In the gloom, he made out a hole low down in the wall, and a thin square of glittery white stone beside it on the floor. Near that lay a staff and a goatskin that had been flung aside in a rush.

“It's gone,” Pirra said blankly. “The dagger's gone.”

“U
serref took it,” said Pirra. “That means he's alive, thank the Goddess!”

“You're sure it was him?” said Hylas.

“Has to be, he's the only one who knows where I hid it. Look, there's the proof. I wrapped it in that goatskin, but Egyptians think goats are unclean, so he used the staff to get at the dagger without touching the hide. Oh, Userref.” She sat on the bed, feeling numb. “I should've known he'd come straight here. And he knew the way, that's why he got here first.”

“So he really does think you're dead,” said Hylas. “Where will he have gone?”

She shook her head. “I told him to keep it safe till he could destroy it. He may still be in here, hiding out.”

“He can't be, we've been all over.”

“Hylas, we've hardly been anywhere! Kunisu's vast. He could be in any one of the workshops or the inner chambers or down in the understory—”

“And if Deukaryo's trick didn't work and the Crows are on our trail, they'll be coming after us right now and we won't know it, stuck in here.”

She met his eyes. “There are places we can see out.”

“Right. And while we're checking, we can look for Userref.”

Time passed in a blur as they raced between windows and balconies. As they ran, Pirra tried to give Hylas a sense of Kunisu. “Great Court's in the middle. My chambers are to the east, with my mother's above. Workshops in the west. Storerooms to the north, with the understory underneath . . .” But she could see that he was struggling to take it in.

Wherever they went, they saw no sign of the Crows—or of Userref. Once, Hylas opened his mouth to call his name, but was instantly hushed by Pirra. “We don't know what the priests left in here to guard it,” she whispered. “Best not make too much noise.”

Hylas licked his lips. “Dark soon. I say we hide out in your room and continue the search at first light.”

He was right, but Pirra felt a stab of alarm. They'd planned to find the dagger and get out—but Kunisu wasn't letting them go.

Hylas asked if there were other entrances apart from the gates, and when she said yes, he was horrified. “What if they're open too?”

To their relief, they found the north and south gates securely barred. Then they doubled back and barred the west gates, which they hadn't done when they'd come in.

“I wonder why they were open in the first place,” said Hylas, voicing Pirra's thoughts.

“Must have been Userref,” she said. But it occurred to her that maybe Userref had also found the gates ajar. Maybe Yassassara had ordered them left like that—because she'd foreseen that her daughter would return.

It was dark by the time they made their final check at the East Balcony. Below them the ground fell away to trees and the river. No glimmer of torches. No sign of the Crows.

“Which doesn't mean they're not out there,” muttered Hylas.

Pirra didn't reply. To the southeast and horribly close, she made out the Ridge of the Dead. There was no mistaking her mother's tomb. It was sealed with white gypsum and it glared down at her like a great cold eye.

“. . . if we don't find him tomorrow,” Hylas was saying, “we get out. Pirra?”

“What? Um. Yes.”

But as they headed back to her room, she had the dreadful feeling that things were unfolding exactly as her mother had wanted.

She was back in the House of the Goddess, and she was never getting out.

The lion cub couldn't see any way of getting in.

The boy and girl had raced into the gaping jaws of the great horned mountain, but the cub's courage had failed her and she'd fled. Now she crouched among reeds by the fast-flowing wet, shaking with terror.

She'd never seen a mountain like this. It was white and smooth and hollow, and it reeked of men. Around it were many lairs of men, all empty, but still with that terrifying reek. She couldn't go in there, not even for the boy.

The Dark came and the cub smelled prey making their way to drink. A doe trotted past without sensing her, and a badger shambled out of its hole within an easy pounce. The lion cub ignored them. The falcon swept past with a scornful glance, and the lion cub ignored her too. The boy might be in trouble.
He might never come out.

Leaving the reeds, she prowled closer, and gazed up at the horned mountain. She still couldn't face its gaping jaws, but maybe she could find a less frightening way in.

The mountain's flanks were hard, and so smooth that her claws didn't make a scratch—she just slid off, leaving a smear of dusty paw prints.

She spotted a pine growing near it. One branch reached even closer. The branch was quite high up, but from there it would be an easy leap inside . . .

Pines have good rough bark, and the lion cub managed her best climb ever and scrambled into a fork and considered what to do next.

The branch she was aiming for was on the other side of the trunk. Awkwardly, she stretched one forepaw around and caught it with her claws. She made a swipe with the other forepaw—missed, hung by one paw, scrabbling frantically—then swung up a hind leg and hoisted herself clumsily onto the branch, where she crouched, clinging with every claw and even her tail.

The falcon lit onto the same branch and stared at her.

The cub hissed at her to get
off,
and the falcon flew away and perched on one of the mountain's horns, to watch.

The branch was higher than the lion cub had thought, and much farther from the mountain than it had looked from the ground. She could never leap that far.

The falcon lifted off and lazily circled the pine, then glided between the mountain's tall white horns and disappeared inside.
See? It's easy for me.

Oh, go away. The cub tried to turn around, but the branch was too narrow. To reach the fork and get down again, she'd have to go backward—but she'd never done that before, not this high up.

Now that the falcon was gone, the cub wished she'd return. The bird was haughty and infuriating, but she was better than being on your own.

A gust of wind ruffled the cub's fur, and the pine tree whispered:
What are you going to do now?

J
ust for tonight, Pirra told herself stubbornly, I'm going to forget about the Mystery. I'm fed up with being dirty and scared.

Making Hylas wait in her chamber, she ran next door to the water room and took a swift cold bath, then dragged a comb through her hair and threw on the clean tunic she'd brought from her clothes chest. After that she hurriedly showed Hylas the split seat in the corner for relieving oneself, with the bucket to wash it away, and then explained about refilling the bath from the water jars and pulling out the wooden plug when he'd finished.

He eyed the bath with suspicion. “That's a coffin.”

“No it's not.”

“Yes it is. Last time I saw one of them was in a tomb.”

“It's a
bath,
” said Pirra, “and you could do with one. I'll be back soon, I'm off to get supplies.”

She found the cloth stores locked, and cracked the clay sealings with her knife, half expecting an angry steward to come running. Her rushlight revealed piles of linen and wool that exhaled a dusty tang of rosemary. Stifling a sense of wrong-doing, she found a short-sleeved jerkin of fine blue wool that looked about Hylas' size, a man's kilt of supple deerskin with a fringed hem, a wide red calf-hide belt, sandals, and a knife-sheath of braided leather. Bundling them up in a cloak of rare dark green, she made for the food stores.

Someone had broken in before her: someone who hated stealing, and had left a neat record of what they'd taken on a waxed wooden tablet propped against the door—four flatbreads, a wineskin, and a bag of salted ducks' legs.

In the wax, Pirra saw the tiny imprint of a scarab beetle. The reluctant thief had been Userref. “Userref?” she whispered.

No answer.

Her hand went to the
wedjat
amulet at her throat. She longed for Userref to emerge from the shadows and scold her. “Pirra, look at you! Hair loose—and your
feet
! Rougher than a crocodile's hide!”

“Userref, where
are
you?” she said in a hoarse whisper. But all she heard was the thrum of sparrows' wings, and mice scurrying along the roof beams.

She knew the priests wouldn't have left Kunisu unprotected. There would be guardians—although maybe not in human form. Suddenly she was sharply aware of the dark spaces around her. The glimmering rushlight made familiar things frightening. A painted octopus glared from a grain jar as tall as a man.

Her thoughts flew to Echo. Did the falcon know where she was? Would she dare follow her into Kunisu?

“Food,” she told herself firmly. “Get on with it, Pirra.”

Hurrying down the rows, she grabbed as much as she could carry, then struggled back to her quarters as laden as a donkey on market day.

Hylas was still in the water room, splashing in the bath. She flung in his new clothes, then started setting out the supplies on her clothes chest.

“Did you find him?” he called.

“No. But he was here.” Standing back, she surveyed the feast. There were snails in oil and octopus in brine; smoked venison, dried swordfish, and blood sausage with onions and chestnuts; pickled vine leaves stuffed with fennel and chickpeas; pressed figs, fat black mulberries in rose-petal syrup; and her favorite, crunchy almond honey cakes. To drink, she'd brought a skin of best raisin wine, with barley meal and ewe's-milk cheese for mixing, and two silver drinking cups, because they were lighter than pottery and wouldn't break.

While she was away, Hylas had found some pressed olive kernels and woken a fire in the brazier, so as she waited for him she made an offering, flicking wine on the flames and begging the Goddess to keep away the Crows.

Please, she added silently, tell me if I should do the Mystery. Send me a sign. Is this why You're keeping me here? Or is it just chance?

She must have spoken the last bit out loud, because behind her Hylas said, “Is what just chance?”

He stood in the doorway wearing his new jerkin and kilt, and for a moment he didn't look like Hylas, but the long-legged god in the Hall of Whispers: the same broad shoulders and narrow waist; the same knife-cut features and startling rock-crystal eyes.

“Is what just chance?” he repeated.

“Nothing,” she croaked. “I was making an offering.”

He nodded. “Did the gods send you a sign?”

“Not yet.”

He glanced at the food on the chest, then back to her. “You look better.”

She touched her cheek. She'd never felt so ugly, or hated her scar more. “I'm just clean, that's all,” she muttered.

He tucked his lion-claw amulet in the neck of his jerkin and raised his eyebrows. “Do I look Keftian?”

She flushed. “No. But you look all right.”

Pirra lit more lamps and fetched some sheepskins, then they sat on the floor and fell on the food. She gulped two goblets of wine very fast, and felt her worries slip away in a golden glow. She forgot about the Mystery. She even forgot about her scar. It was wonderful to be warm again, and
clean
.

Hazily, she watched Hylas feeding the fire. The light caught a dusting of fine gold hairs along his jaw. No Keftian man wore a beard, and Pirra had always thought them uncouth, but she reflected that if Hylas grew one, she wouldn't mind.

He'd resumed his place on the floor and sat turning his drinking cup in his fingers and staring at the paintings on the wall. He hadn't drunk as much as her, and to her surprise, he seemed ill at ease in his new clothes. He'd ignored the sandals, and kept his battered old knife-sheath. She wondered why.

“Why do they do that?” he said abruptly.

“What?”

“Keftian children, like the one in that painting. Shave their heads, with one lock hanging down.”

“To keep cool. And it's cleaner. But you always leave the sidelock because that's where your soul lives.”

He stared at her. “
You
did it too?”

“Till I was eleven.” She smiled. He didn't smile back.

It occurred to her that maybe he felt intimidated by Kunisu, so to put him at his ease, she asked what he thought of the dolphins on the other wall, and if they reminded him of Spirit, the dolphin they'd made friends with two summers ago.

“They got the noses wrong,” he said. “They look like ducks.”

“I think so too,” she agreed. “And the fins are wrong. Spirit wouldn't think much of them, would he?”

He gave her a brief smile, but it soon clouded over.

“Hylas, what's wrong?” she said.

“Nothing.”

“That's not true.”

He hesitated. “I just . . . I never thought it would be this grand. I mean, your own little coffin, just to wash!”

“It's a bath,” she said, biting back a smile.

“And all the colored clothes and jewels and silver cups—
silver!
”

“And no earth, no trees, and no freedom,” she said bitterly.

He glowered at her, unconvinced.

“The first time I ever saw a live fish,” she said, “I was astonished because it moved so fast. I'd only seen them in paintings or a dish.” She paused. “There was an old woman, a slave who'd never been outside, she'd worked in the weaving room her whole life. One day she found her way to the Great Court and saw the sky. She was terrified it would fall on her; it sent her mad. I've always dreaded ending up like her. Gibbering in some windowless room with only lizards for company.”

Hylas gave her a considering look. “That's not going to happen. If we don't find Userref first thing tomorrow, we're getting out.”

She nodded. She wanted to believe it. She really did.

“Pirra, what's wrong?” said Hylas. “Are you still worrying about the Mystery? Is it—dangerous?”

Springing to her feet, Pirra grabbed the oil jar and fed the lamps. Sometimes, Hylas noticed too much.

“Whatever it involves,” he said quietly, “I'll help you.”

“You can't. You can't help and I can't tell you about it.”

“Why?”

“Because . . . it's secret. That's why it's a Mystery. All I can tell you is it's about calling on the Goddess to make Herself visible—to make Herself flesh—then
maybe,
She'll bring back the Sun.” She gulped more wine, but it no longer gave her a warm glow, only a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She felt the weight of expectation tightening around her. Her mother . . . Deukaryo . . . that child in the cavern with her grubby toy donkey, and all the others like her . . .

She couldn't tell Hylas any of this. He would only try to stop her. And if she did find the courage to perform the Mystery, it would mean never seeing him again.

It would mean sacrificing her life to bring back the Sun.