getting low. To the west, he spotted another ridge jutting from the Mountain, this one covered in trees. Leaving a few more signs for Pirra, he started down toward it. He passed a clump of rue and rubbed some on his limbs, to mask his scent and keep off the flies; he didnât want them settling on his skin, then carrying his smell to the prey.
It was cooler under the pines and the air smelled fresh and sweet. He munched goosefoot leaves and crunchy little bulbs of tassel hyacinths. He saw the shiny pellets of wild goat, and a patch of flattened grass where a hare had rested.
He found another hot spring, ringed by vivid orange mud. The water wasnât as hot as the last spring, and it tasted all right. He drank greedily, and strength coursed through him. Maybe Thalakrea wasnât out to get him. Maybe he just had to learn its ways.
The hare lolloped out of the brambles twenty paces away.
Hylas froze.
The hare was young and foolish. It sat up with its back to him and its paws on its belly.
Not daring to breathe, Hylas swung his slingshot and let fly.
He couldnât risk a fire in case the Crows saw the smoke, so he ate the hare raw, drinking the blood and gobbling the sweet slithery liver. He chewed the knobbly little heart and as much meat as he could, but it was the first heâd had in moons, and he soon felt sick.
Hastily, he thanked the hare for letting itself be eaten, and sprinkled dust on its nose to help its spirit hop off and find a new body. He set its forepaws on a boulder as an offering for the Lady of the Wild Things, its hind paws for the Lady of Fire, and stuck its tail in a bush for the long-dead stoneworkers on the ridge; they were the closest heâd ever gotten to having Ancestors of his own.
He slung what was left of the carcass over a branch, to tackle tomorrow. Right now, he barely had enough strength to wash his hands.
The hot water stung, but it felt good. Maybe it was a magic spring. On impulse, he slid all the way in.
In his whole life, Hylas had only ever bathed in cold lakes and streams, and being in
hot
water felt incredibly strange. But he could feel it healing his cuts and soothing his knotted muscles; washing away the grime of the pit and the last traces of Flea the slave. When he climbed out, he was Hylas the Outsider. He was
free
.
He was also dizzy with fatigue. He cut an armful of ferns, dragged them under a rocky overhang, and curled up.
Tomorrow he would make needles from the hareâs bones and thread from its sinews, then sew a waterskin and a kilt from its hide. After that, heâd work out how to rescue Pirra . . .
A knife, he thought hazily. You forgot to make a knife.
An image of the dagger of Koronos floated into his mind. He saw its lethal bronze blade in all its savage beauty, and his fingers tightened to grasp its hilt. Heâd only possessed it for a few days last summer, but it had made him feel stronger and less alone. He wished it were with him now.
Gradually, his thoughts loosened. He was dimly aware of the song of the night crickets and bubbling of the spring . . .
Was that something larger making its way through the ferns?
Not big enough to be dangerous. Probably a badger or a fox.
The ferns rocked him to sleep on a cool green-scented Sea.
16
T he lion cub didnât know what to make of the human.
He was different from the ones whoâd killed her mother and father. He was half-grown, and he had no dogs and no terrible flapping hide.
And
heâd scared off the buzzard.
This made the cub wonder if he might be the one who was supposed to look after her. Sheâd thought it would be a lion; but somehow, this human felt right.
All through the Light, sheâd padded after him: past the hot wet and into the thickets, past the bones that had been her mother, up the ridge and down to the forest. Theyâd wandered for
ages,
and her bad paw hurt a lot. Why did he walk when it was glarey and hot, then sleep
It was cooler under the pines and the air smelled fresh and sweet. He munched goosefoot leaves and crunchy little bulbs of tassel hyacinths. He saw the shiny pellets of wild goat, and a patch of flattened grass where a hare had rested.
He found another hot spring, ringed by vivid orange mud. The water wasnât as hot as the last spring, and it tasted all right. He drank greedily, and strength coursed through him. Maybe Thalakrea wasnât out to get him. Maybe he just had to learn its ways.
The hare lolloped out of the brambles twenty paces away.
Hylas froze.
The hare was young and foolish. It sat up with its back to him and its paws on its belly.
Not daring to breathe, Hylas swung his slingshot and let fly.
He couldnât risk a fire in case the Crows saw the smoke, so he ate the hare raw, drinking the blood and gobbling the sweet slithery liver. He chewed the knobbly little heart and as much meat as he could, but it was the first heâd had in moons, and he soon felt sick.
Hastily, he thanked the hare for letting itself be eaten, and sprinkled dust on its nose to help its spirit hop off and find a new body. He set its forepaws on a boulder as an offering for the Lady of the Wild Things, its hind paws for the Lady of Fire, and stuck its tail in a bush for the long-dead stoneworkers on the ridge; they were the closest heâd ever gotten to having Ancestors of his own.
He slung what was left of the carcass over a branch, to tackle tomorrow. Right now, he barely had enough strength to wash his hands.
The hot water stung, but it felt good. Maybe it was a magic spring. On impulse, he slid all the way in.
In his whole life, Hylas had only ever bathed in cold lakes and streams, and being in
hot
water felt incredibly strange. But he could feel it healing his cuts and soothing his knotted muscles; washing away the grime of the pit and the last traces of Flea the slave. When he climbed out, he was Hylas the Outsider. He was
free
.
He was also dizzy with fatigue. He cut an armful of ferns, dragged them under a rocky overhang, and curled up.
Tomorrow he would make needles from the hareâs bones and thread from its sinews, then sew a waterskin and a kilt from its hide. After that, heâd work out how to rescue Pirra . . .
A knife, he thought hazily. You forgot to make a knife.
An image of the dagger of Koronos floated into his mind. He saw its lethal bronze blade in all its savage beauty, and his fingers tightened to grasp its hilt. Heâd only possessed it for a few days last summer, but it had made him feel stronger and less alone. He wished it were with him now.
Gradually, his thoughts loosened. He was dimly aware of the song of the night crickets and bubbling of the spring . . .
Was that something larger making its way through the ferns?
Not big enough to be dangerous. Probably a badger or a fox.
The ferns rocked him to sleep on a cool green-scented Sea.
16
T he lion cub didnât know what to make of the human.
He was different from the ones whoâd killed her mother and father. He was half-grown, and he had no dogs and no terrible flapping hide.
And
heâd scared off the buzzard.
This made the cub wonder if he might be the one who was supposed to look after her. Sheâd thought it would be a lion; but somehow, this human felt right.
All through the Light, sheâd padded after him: past the hot wet and into the thickets, past the bones that had been her mother, up the ridge and down to the forest. Theyâd wandered for
ages,
and her bad paw hurt a lot. Why did he walk when it was glarey and hot, then sleep
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