The Burning Shadow by Michelle Paver Page B

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 . . .
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œWhere did you get this?” he asked the merchant.
    â€œMy 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—”
    â€œThis boy,” cut in Telamon. “What was he like?”
    The merchant was puzzled.
    â€œTell 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
    W hat would Hylas do now? thought Pirra, shifting uncomfortably on the hard earth floor.
    First rule of survival
,