27

“You can’t,” said Hylas. “The Crows are going to break in at any moment.”

“That’s why I’ve got to do it,” said Pirra. “I’ll never get another chance.”

“But Pirra there’s no time!”

“And if the Sun doesn’t come back, there’ll be famine, and no time for any of us!”

He stared at her. “You really mean to do this.”

“And I have to do it alone, Hylas. You need to get out while you can.”

“What, and leave you here by yourself?”

“I know Kunisu, the Crows don’t. I can hide for long enough to . . . Hylas please! Do this for me.” Now that she’d made up her mind, she was desperate for him to leave. Every moment he stayed made it harder.

He glanced at the slingshot in his hands, then back to her. “Why do you have to do it? What about all those priests—”

“They’re men. It has to be a priestess—”

“Which you’re not!”

“No, but I’m Yassassara’s daughter and I know what to do. There’s no time to explain, but I know—in here”—she struck her heart with her fist—“that I have to do what my mother would have done if she’d lived. If you want to help me, you have to go!”

He gave her a long searching look. Then his mouth set in a stubborn line. “No. I meant what I said in the mountains. We won’t be separated again.”

Pirra drew a breath. “This is different.”

“Why?”

She couldn’t tell him. If he knew, he’d never let her do it.

“No,” he said again. “I’m not leaving you. I’ll keep the Crows at bay while you do whatever it is you have to do—then we’re getting out of here. Together.”

Pirra halted before the double doors of the High Priestess’ innermost chamber. Her heart thudded against her breastbone and the rushlight trembled in her fist.

The doors creaked open at her touch. Outside, the dim gray day had dawned, but the chamber before her was dark. She had never been inside. She dreaded seeing Yassassara’s ghost warding her back.

Don’t think about Hylas, she told herself as she shut the doors behind her. But she couldn’t help it. He’d told her he was going to set traps for the Crows, and she’d given him hasty directions for finding his way, then they’d parted at the foot of the stairs. So fast. No time to say good-bye.

Don’t think about him—or Havoc or Echo. They’re behind you now. They’re in the past.

Once, she’d seen her mother perform a Mystery, but that had been a far lesser one than this. What she was about to attempt was unlike all other rites. There would be no bull-leaping, no sacrifice of ox or ram, and no watching crowd. This Mystery came from ancient times, when the gods had demanded human life.

She made out a brazier set for a fire, and touched it with the rushlight. Flames leaped, and with a jolt, she saw that everything for the Mystery had been laid out, waiting for her.

The green glass bowl of frankincense, the ivory dishes of ground earth, the rock-crystal phials of sacred oils . . . She realized that on the other side of Kunisu, she would find another brazier on the West Balcony, and the alabaster conch shell for summoning the Goddess.

With a thrill of horror, Pirra stared at the rich robes of Keftian purple laid out on the chest. They still bore the shape of her mother’s body. Perhaps Yassassara had been about to begin when the Plague had struck her down—or perhaps she had foreseen that her daughter would stand here now.

Suddenly, Pirra’s spirit rebelled. I don’t have to do this! I don’t even know if I can! Why should I forfeit my life if I don’t even know it’ll work? I’m not going to, I’m going to find Hylas and run away . . .

And then what? said the other part of her mind. Hide out somewhere and watch Keftiu wither and die?

Again she saw the child in the cavern, eking out her last days in hunger and despair.

Setting her teeth, Pirra filled the porphyry basin with seawater from the jar, then hurriedly stripped and washed. Her teeth chattered as she twisted gold wire in her hair and piled it in coils on her head, leaving seven locks snaking down.

In each ivory dish, she mixed oils of hyacinth and myrrh with powders ground from stones of different hues, then painted herself all over: white gypsum on her face and body, red ochre on her palms and the soles of her feet. There. That was for the earth of Keftiu.

For the Sea, she donned Yassassara’s heavy skirt of Keftian purple and her tight, open-breasted bodice. She tied her waist with the sacred knot of Sea silk, spun from the red-gold filaments of giant mussels. She sprinkled her robes with oil of Sea lily, and tried not to think about why her bodice bared the heart: to take the knife.

For the sky, she put on anklets, earrings, and wrist-cuffs incised with sacred birds. With trembling hands, she placed her mother’s great collar of the Sun about her neck, where it lay heavy and chill against her flesh.

Already the gypsum was stiffening on her face, and when she touched her cheek, she couldn’t feel her scar. The earth of Keftiu had hidden it and rendered her perfect, as befitted a vessel for the Goddess.

From downstairs came a muffled squawk that she recognized as Echo—followed by Hylas’ voice, sounding annoyed. She shut her eyes. Don’t think about them. He’ll look after Echo. He’ll teach her to hunt.

Taking a brush made of the tip of a squirrel’s tail and trying not to meet her gaze in her mother’s bronze mirror, she painted her eyelids with henna and poppy juice—so that she might see with the eyes of the Goddess. She painted the tips of her ears red—that she might hear with the ears of the Goddess, and her lips—that she might speak with the voice of the Goddess.

She hesitated. Only one thing missing now.

The ebony box lay open to reveal the knife. It was silver, the blade enamelled with a blue dolphin leaping over black waves. Pirra didn’t want to touch it. When she did, she would be ready: to descend to the Hall of Whispers and twine the sacred snakes about her arms, and wake the gods of the underworld . . .

To cross the Great Court and climb to the Upper Chamber and burn frankincense for the gods of the sky . . .

Last of all, to blow the alabaster conch shell and beg the Goddess to bring back the Sun: to raise the knife and complete the Mystery . . .

Footsteps echoed as Hylas came running upstairs.

Pirra took the knife and slid it into the gilded sheath at her hip. Make him pass without stopping. Don’t let me see him, or I won’t have the strength to go through with this.

He stopped outside the double doors. They creaked as he pushed them open.

“Hylas don’t—” she said over her shoulder.

It wasn’t Hylas.

It was Telamon.