Free The Eye of the Falcon by Michelle Paver Page B

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.
    â€œKeftian 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.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI 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.”