The Burning Shadow

by Michelle Paver

  “Wh-at?” said Pirra. “The Obsidian Isles? But that’s halfway to Akea!”

  “The ‘Obsidian Isles’ may be what you Keftians call them,” said Hekabi with an edge to her voice, “but we who live there simply call them the Islands.” She paused. “Ten years ago, warriors came from Akea. They went from island to island till they found what they wanted.”

  Pirra’s belly tightened. “You mean the Crows.”

  “The warriors of Koronos. Yes.”

  It was Pirra’s turn to stare out to Sea. Last summer, she’d narrowly escaped being wed to the son of a Crow Chieftain. Then another Crow Chieftain had beaten her up and nearly killed Hylas.

  “On the island where I was born,” said Hekabi, “the Crows found what they wanted.” Her hands tightened on the side of the ship. “They dug deep into the earth, wrenching the greenstone from Her entrails, calling the island theirs.”

  Pirra swallowed. “The copper mines. Is that where we’re going?”

  Hekabi nodded. “My poor, devastated homeland. Thalakrea.”

  8

  Hylas had lost track of how long he’d been at Thalakrea.

  Twice he’d tried to escape by creeping past the guards at the Neck under cover of darkness. Twice Zan had caught him and beaten him up. “Try that once more,” the older boy had warned, “and I’ll have to turn you in.”

  Then a spate of accidents had made Hylas forget about escape. A rope had snapped, sending a sack plummeting down the shaft and breaking a man’s leg. A falling rock had nearly brained another, and a spilled lamp had set fire to a pile of ropes, badly burning three hammermen.

  Fear is catching underground. Soon Hylas was flinching at shadows. Did that rock move? Was that a shadow, or a snatcher?

  Once, he dreamed he was back on Mount Lykas, wading through crystal streams and cool green bracken. Issi was there. As always she was plaguing him with questions. Where are the frogs, Hylas? But when he woke, the dream felt as if it had happened to someone else: to Hylas the Outsider, not Flea the slave.

  Despite the fear, he was growing almost accustomed to the mines. He knew that overseers were called “guts,” the girls who tended the lamps down the pit were “sparks,’” and the small children who sorted the greenstone were “moles.”

  Apart from Spit, he got along all right with his fellow spiders. Bat was cheerful and keen to help. Beetle remained silent and fearful underground, but was friendly above, although he’d been more subdued of late. Zan was clever and resourceful, and he never pried. “We all got secrets,” he said with a shrug.

  One night, Hylas stole a joint of smoked hog from a gut and they sat munching in the dark, swapping their stories. Zan said he was the son of a horse-breaker from somewhere called Arzawa, far to the east. Bat had been born at the mines: He thought his mother had been a slave and his father a gut, but was hazy on details. Beetle’s father had been a rich Egyptian merchant.

  “So he says,” said Zan, rolling his eyes. “But then he wants us to believe that in Egypt they got horses that live in rivers, and giant man-eating lizards!”

  “We do,” said Beetle. “They’re called crocodiles, they—”

  Zan grinned and pelted him with pebbles.

  Beetle sprang to his feet and went to stand at the mouth of the den.

  “What’s got into him?” said Hylas.

  Zan shrugged. “What about you, Flea? You got any kin?”

  Hylas hesitated. “My mother left me on a mountain. That’s all I know.” It wasn’t. He knew she had cared about him and Issi, because she’d wrapped them in a bearskin and stroked his face; but he didn’t want to tell Zan, or reveal that he had a sister.

  Two days later, they were crawling down to the seventh level to pick up another load when his sack snagged. By the time he’d freed it, the others had gone ahead.

  As he hurried around a bend, he made out a couple of pit props a few paces in front. Between them crouched a small murky figure, gripping a hammerstone with both hands.

  It took Hylas a moment to grasp that the figure was pounding at one of the props, trying to dislodge it. “Hey, you!” he yelled.

  Whoever it was flung down the stone and fled, with Hylas scrambling after him.

  Several frantic twists and turns later, Hylas crashed into Spit. Grabbing him by the hair, Hylas wrenched his arm behind his back. “Knocking out a pit prop? Why? You could’ve killed us all!”

  Spit wriggled and squealed. Hylas jerked his arm higher.

  Zan and Beetle arrived and hauled him off.

  “He was trying to bring down the roof!” panted Hylas.

  “It wasn’t me, I swear!” whimpered Spit. “May the Lady of Fire strike me dead if I lie!”

  “Leave him alone, Flea,” said Zan. “He says it wasn’t him.”

  “But I saw him!”

  “I said leave it!”

  A few days later, Hylas jolted awake from a bad dream.

  It wasn’t yet dawn, and on the furnace ridge the smith’s hammer had fallen silent. Hylas lay listening to the crows cawing around the stronghold. Kreon had discovered what people called his clan, and he liked it. He’d ordered carcasses flung from the walls to attract the birds.

  Hylas got up and started putting on his rags. These days, he moved in a fog of dread. There was something terribly wrong with Thalakrea, and it was getting worse.

  It was whispered that the snatchers no longer stayed underground. Someone had glimpsed a shadow emerging from the pit and slipping downhill. A boy had woken from a nightmare and felt something squatting on his chest. And last night, a hammerman had rushed screaming up the slope and thrown himself down the shaft. Even the animals had sensed that something was wrong. The pools had fallen silent: The frogs had gone.

  Some said the Mountain was angry because they were digging too deep, while others blamed Kreon for killing the lion. His warriors had been seen carrying the carcass toward the stronghold to be skinned; and soon afterward, the accidents had begun.

  From the ridge, the smith’s hammer rang out. Hylas wished the others would wake up.

  Zan and Beetle were twitching in their sleep, as if they were still hauling sacks. Bat lay clutching the balding remains of his tunnel mouse. Spit’s bony knees were drawn up to his ribs and his mouth hung open: a dark void surrounded by broken teeth.

  Hylas stopped binding his knees and stared at that gaping mouth. A terrifying thought had occurred to him.

  He woke Zan and dragged him to the mouth of the den.

  “What’s this about?” growled Zan, rubbing his eyes.

  “If a snatcher gets you,” breathed Hylas, “it can reach down your throat—yes?”

  “That’s what they say. So?”

  “So that means it can get inside you.”

  “They’re spirits, they can do anything. Why?”

  “What’s he saying?” Beetle stood behind them with his arms at his sides.

  Hylas motioned him closer. “The first night I came, I asked what was wrong with Spit, and Zan said a snatcher’d nearly got him.” He swallowed. “I think you were wrong, Zan. I think a snatcher already has.”

  Beetle’s face went still. Zan’s scowl deepened. “What?”

  Hylas pointed at the sleeping boy and whispered, “He’s possessed. It’s inside him.”

  They didn’t believe him.

  Zan got angry, while Beetle retreated behind a blank, uncomprehending stare. When Hylas insisted, Zan turned on him. “Why are you always accusing him?”

  “Why are you always shielding him?”

  “We’re pit spiders, we stick together, that’s how we survive!”

  “Even if he gets us all killed?”

  “He won’t. He’s one of us. So shut up!”

  In stony silence they got dressed. Hylas watched Spit waken and pluck desultorily at his rags. He was skeletally thi
n, and his face was wizened, like that of an old man.

  Hylas pictured the evil spirit coiled in the pulsing red darkness under his heart. Who knew what it would make him do next?

  9

  Telamon knelt with his hands in the cold mountain stream and wondered what to do next.

  He couldn’t go back to his father’s stronghold, not yet. And he must not cry. He was fourteen summers old: almost a man. And Hylas was dead.

  “I’ve kept my promise to you, Hylas,” he said as the water lifted the blood off his fingers. “I said I’d sacrifice a ram for you, and I have. Be at peace, my friend.”

  Long after his hands were clean, he remained kneeling by the stream, while a chill wind from Mount Lykas dried the tears on his cheeks.

  For the thousandth time, he told himself that Hylas’ death wasn’t his fault. How could he have known that his own kin—his father’s brother—would hunt Hylas like prey? It wasn’t his fault. It was the will of the gods.

  Why then did the guilt always come back?

  If only he’d warned Hylas sooner. Just a single day. Then he and Issi could have gotten away, and they’d still be alive.

  As Telamon was heading for home, the gods rewarded him for making a sacrifice for his friend: His dogs flushed a boar.

  He didn’t have time to be scared. One moment the dogs were harrying the great beast; the next, it was crashing through the bracken toward him.

  Without thinking, he dropped to one knee and jammed the butt of his spear in the earth to steady it, aiming its point at the boar and gripping the shaft with both hands.

  The boar thundered closer. Its small eyes locked on Telamon’s. He caught its hot rank smell and saw its lethal yellow tusks.

  Suddenly it swerved and came at him from the side. He jerked the spear to meet it. The force of the beast’s charge drove its chest onto the point, snapping the shaft and jolting Telamon to the marrow. The boar fell dead a cubit from where he knelt.

  He gave a jittery laugh. This was his fourth boar—he had to kill twelve before he’d have enough tusks to make a helmet—but it was by far the biggest. He couldn’t believe he’d killed it by himself.

  He tried to stand, but was annoyed to find that his legs didn’t work. He was shaking like a girl. Thank the spirits there was no one to see.

  Moments later, two goatherds came down the track, idly slashing the bracken with sticks.

  Telamon lurched to his feet.

  The goatherds recognized the son of their Chieftain, and dropped their sticks.

  Curtly, Telamon ordered them to carry the carcass back to Lapithos.

  “What about our goats, my lord?” said one.

  “Do as I say,” he snapped.

  As he strode off, he heard them snigger. The blood rushed to his face. They’d seen him shaking.

  Suddenly, Telamon despised himself for his weakness. With a stab of envy, he reflected that if it had been Hylas facing that boar, he wouldn’t have gone all shaky. Hylas was brave and tough. No one dared laugh at him . . .

  Shut up, Telamon told himself fiercely.

  By the time he reached his father’s stronghold at Lapithos, he was feeling a bit better. Thestor was delighted with his son’s kill, and insisted that he sit beside him on his bench. Fire, roast venison, and strong wine mixed with honey and barley meal did the rest. Telamon sat warming himself before the great round ancestral hearth, enjoying the approval of his father’s warriors and the pleasure in Thestor’s eyes.

  His new friend Selinos refilled his cup. “I hear it’s the biggest boar in Lykonia,” he said with an ingratiating smile.

  Telamon shrugged.

  Hylas would never have flattered me like this, he thought with a pang. He’d have grinned and said, So how many more till you can call yourself a man, eh? Then he’d have dragged me off to the forest and we’d have roasted a hedgehog in river clay and washed it down with a skinful of barley beer stolen from the village . . .

  “Your father’s very proud of you,” said Selinos in an undertone. “I’ve no doubt High Chieftain Koronos will be too.” He cleared his throat. “You’ve not been to Mycenae, have you? Or met your grandfather? I’m sure he’ll want to change that very soon.”

  Telamon forced a smile. Selinos came from Mycenae. Telamon suspected that Koronos had sent him to take a look at his grandson, and report back.

  This pleased and frightened Telamon in equal measure. Koronos was the most powerful Chieftain in Akea. And the most feared.

  The heat and noise of the feast faded, and Telamon remembered last summer, when he’d stood in this very hall with the dagger of Koronos in his hands.

  Proudly, he’d told his father how he’d taken it from the dead grip of his uncle Kratos. By retrieving the most precious heirloom of his clan, he’d gained great honor. And yet, Thestor’s praise had been stilted, for with him were his terrible siblings: his two surviving brothers, Kreon and Pharax, and their cold-eyed sister, Alekto.

  Apart from them, the hall had been empty. Earlier, Thestor’s entire household had gathered to see the dagger that held the power of the House of Koronos—but after that, they’d been sent away. None but Koronos’ closest blood kin must know of the perils their House faced. None must know what the Oracle had predicted: that an Outsider could bring them down . . .

  “So tell me all about it,” said Selinos, wrenching him back. “How did you kill such a huge beast on your own?”

  “Yes, how?” cried Thestor. Then to his warriors, “Listen to this, lads!”

  Dutifully, Telamon embarked on his story. But somehow, it didn’t feel real.

  He was walled in by secrets.

  The Oracle was a secret known only to Koronos and his kin.

  Thestor had kept secrets from his own son. For years, he’d told Telamon nothing about his family, the House of Koronos. They’d done dreadful things and he wanted no part of them. Only latterly had he been forced to overcome his scruples.

  Even Telamon had secrets. Hylas had been his best friend, the very Outsider who the Oracle had foretold would be the ruin of his House. And that was something only his father knew.

  Layers of deception, like skin . . .

  “What did I tell you?” cried Thestor, clapping him on the back. “He’ll be a warrior before he’s fifteen!”

  It was nearly midnight. Dogs nosed the rushes for scraps, and most of the drinkers—including Selinos—had dragged sheepskins off the benches and fallen asleep.

  Thestor sat cradling his gold drinking cup by the fire. These days, he drank too much. His kinsmen might be far away in Mycenae, but they cast a long shadow.

  He caught Telamon watching and smiled sadly. “So, Telamon,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “While you were out killing monsters, a party of merchants came up from the coast. They’ve set out their wares in the east chamber. Why don’t you go and choose whatever you like?”

  Telamon was surprised and pleased. “Thank you, Father.”

  Thestor gave him an affectionate punch on the arm, and turned back to the fire.

  The merchants were sharp-faced foreigners who sprang awake when Telamon entered the chamber. He felt pleasantly fuddled. The wine had blunted the edge of his worries.

  The treasures on the blanket shimmered before his eyes. What about that silver cloak pin with the back-to-back eagles? Or the copper wrist-guard. Or the bronze knife with the green lion inlaid on the blade . . .

  Suddenly, he noticed a belt of tooled leather with two square gold plaques on either side of the clasp. His wits cleared in a heartbeat. The plaques were beautifully worked with interlocking spirals formed of tiny gold beads. He’d seen them before.

  One of the merchants sensed his interest. “The young lord has a good eye,” he murmured. “Finest workmanship. Keftian, of course.”

  Telamon already knew that. Those gold squares had once been part
of a bracelet that had belonged to the girl he was supposed to wed. Pirra was her name. He remembered her standing at his side as they’d watched the flames of his uncle’s funeral pyre shooting into the sky. He remembered the smell of burning flesh, and how he’d pretended to be mourning Kratos, when inside he was grieving for Hylas.

  Later, the girl hadn’t been wearing the bracelet, and when he’d asked why, she’d said she’d lost it; although he could tell she was lying. At the time, he hadn’t thought anything of it.

  But now.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked the merchant.

  “My lord, it was my friend . . .” He indicated his companion.

  The companion was Makedonian; the other one had to translate. “He says, lord, that he was given it by some boy in exchange for passage on his ship.”

  Telamon swayed.

  The merchant looked worried. “Is something wrong, my lord? I assure you, it was bought in good faith—”

  “This boy,” cut in Telamon. “What was he like?”

  The merchant was puzzled.

  “Tell me everything,” said Telamon. “And tell no one else. If you disobey me, you will suffer.”

  Both merchants turned pale.

  It was just some boy, they said. About the young lord’s age, maybe a year or so less, and not so tall. Narrow tawny eyes. Strange hair, the color of barley. And a notch in one earlobe . . .

  Telamon left them and staggered back to the hall. He snatched his drinking cup and stared at it. He gulped wine, splashing his tunic.

  Hylas was alive.

  10

  What would Hylas do now? thought Pirra, shifting uncomfortably on the hard earth floor.

  First rule of survival, he’d told her once: Before anything, sort your day’s food and water.

  Well, she had, but that didn’t help much. How was she going to survive on this strange, fiery island ruled by Crows?