10

The boy stood at the mouth of his lair, peering into the Dark. He couldn’t see her, the lion cub was certain.

Was it the boy who’d looked after her long ago?

When she’d caught his scent lower down the mountain, it had scratched at her heart and she’d been desperate to go to him. Fear had taken over—but she hadn’t been able to make herself leave, so she’d followed him through the not-Light and into the Dark. She’d even padded into his lair and sniffed him while he slept. She still didn’t know if it was him.

His scent had changed. It was more like that of a full-grown man, and he also smelled strongly of sheep, which was odd. He never used to smell of sheep.

He looked different too. He was broader, and as tall as a tree. Worst of all, he didn’t sound like the boy she had known; his voice was much deeper.

As the lion cub went off to hunt, her wariness grew. This boy was scared of her, but the boy who’d looked after her long ago had never been scared.

And the boy in the lair had lashed out at her with fire and his big shiny claw. So even if he was the same boy, he had become like all the others.

He was just another human. And the lion cub would never trust a human, not ever again.

Was it really Havoc? wondered Hylas as he followed the paw prints through the snow.

He’d glimpsed a young lion. But had he really seen that scar on her nose? Even if he had, lots of lions had scars.

He tried to remember if Pirra had ever said there were lions on Keftiu. He thought she’d said there weren’t, but if he was wrong . . .

One thing was certain: Those paw prints in the cave were real. While he slept, she’d stood right over him. Surely no other lion would have done that?

It began to snow. To the west, the slope fell away to a forested saddle that looked as if it led to the peak of Mount Dikti. Pirra was somewhere up there; but the trail of paw prints climbed south, toward a rocky ridge that led away from the peak.

Pirra needed him—but so did Havoc. The lion cub was only a yearling; she couldn’t survive for long with no pride to help her hunt. And it was his fault that she was here on Keftiu.

Hylas rubbed his chin and stomped in circles. If this snow kept up, those tracks wouldn’t last long. He blew out a long breath. “I’m sorry, Pirra,” he said out loud. “I will come and find you. But I have to find Havoc first.”

He hadn’t climbed far up the ridge when he came upon a grimy little pus-eater glaring down at him from a boulder.

His breath smoked in the frosty air, and around him the pines stood watchful and silent.

By now he’d learned that Keftians put pus-eaters not only by dwellings, but also by tombs, to catch the Plague wafting from the newly dead. Sure enough, a little farther on, he spotted a small tomb cut into the ridge. Whoever had sealed it had been in a hurry. Stones had been clawed away from the entrance, and to judge from the harsh croaks of ravens, the corpse inside had been dragged out by hungry scavengers.

A dreadful thought occurred to Hylas. Had Havoc become a man-eater?

His boots crunched in the stillness as he detoured around the pus-eater and followed the paw prints toward the tomb. Ravens flew away with loud caws, and a fox slunk off.

Havoc didn’t. She lay tensely on her belly with her head between her shoulder blades. Watching him.

It was her. She’d doubled in size since last year, and her fur was thick and shaggy, but he saw how thin she was underneath. She was still a cub—a gawky yearling—who must have survived by scavenging what she could. Was that why she’d hunkered down near the bones of the human dead?

No, thought Hylas. I won’t believe it. She can’t be a man-eater, not Havoc.

“Havoc?” he called softly. “It’s me, Hylas. Do you remember me?”

Havoc lashed her tail and hissed, baring huge white fangs. Her eyes were colder than he’d ever seen them, and she stared at him without recognition.

“Havoc, what’s happened to you?”

Her huge claws kneaded the snow, as if she was getting ready to spring.

His hand went to his knife. This can’t be, he thought.

With a snarl she sprang away and vanished like a ghost among the pines.

“Havoc!” he shouted.

She didn’t come back. She hadn’t recognized him.

The lion cub fled up the mountain with the boy’s yowls fading behind her. It was him, she was sure of it. She remembered his eyes and his lion-colored mane—and she sensed the lion in his spirit. But he’d changed, she was sure of that too. He was almost a man. And she would never trust a human, not ever again.

As she slowed to a trot, things clawed at her heart that made her snarl. She remembered lying with her head on his legs while he scratched behind her ears. And climbing trees and getting stuck, and him helping her down.

The Bright Soft Cold was hissing harder now, and the wind was beginning to growl. How would the boy survive? There were bears and wolves on the mountain, and like all humans, he was puny. If anything hurt him . . .

The lion cub spun around and raced back down the slope.

When she caught the boy’s scent, she slowed to a walk. She couldn’t go near him, but she could follow him and make sure that he came to no harm. And at least it would be easy to stay hidden; like all humans, he didn’t notice much and couldn’t smell.

The not-Light gave way to the Dark again, and the Bright Soft Cold pelted the mountain. The wind howled in fury—and still the cub followed, slitting her eyes against the storm.

The boy was in trouble. He was staggering, and his furless face was turning gray. The lion cub knew that despite his sheep-like overpelt, he couldn’t just curl up under a boulder as she could, and sleep till the wind calmed down.

If she didn’t lead him to safety, he would die.

You should’ve known better, Hylas told himself as he struggled through the blizzard.

He’d grown up in mountains and survived countless blizzards. Why hadn’t he had more sense? At the first sign of a storm, he should’ve found shelter, woken a fire, and waited it out; but in his eagerness to find Havoc, he’d plodded on, and now night was falling and he was so cold that his thoughts were beginning to blur. If he didn’t get under cover fast, he would die.

A flash of movement between the trees—and there was Havoc, not ten paces away, watching him.

“Havoc,” he mumbled, but his voice was lost in the screaming wind.

Havoc turned and headed off at a muscular trot with her tail held high. She glanced back. Did she want him to follow?

Knee-deep, he floundered after her. Again she waited, then trotted off, her tail-tuft showing black against the snow.

And so it went for an endless time. Snow stung Hylas’ face, and every step became a struggle. At last he halted, panting and swaying. He caught a whiff of woodsmoke. Woodsmoke? Out here?

Havoc returned and lifted her head, as if to say Hurry up.

Nearly spent, Hylas labored on for a few more steps. Between the trees, he glimpsed a blocky shadow. A hut.

A few more steps and he made out a small hide window: a glowing red kernel of warmth in the freezing darkness of the storm. He staggered toward it. Couldn’t take another step. He shouted, but the roar of the storm drowned his voice. He sank to his knees. He couldn’t reach the door, he was spent.

He lay on his back, watching the snow hurtling toward him out of the black night sky. But now through the whirling whiteness, two great amber eyes were gazing down at him. “Havoc,” he croaked.

Warm meaty breath heated his face. A big black nose brushed his cheek, and he felt the prickle of whiskers. Clumsily, he put up his hand and clutched shaggy fur.

“Havoc . . .”

The door creaked open and firelight washed over him.

Havoc slipped from his grip and fled into the night just before Hylas blacked out.