The Eye of the Falcon by Michelle Paver Page B

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.
    â€œ 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.
    â€œHavoc . . .”
    The door creaked open and firelight washed over him.
    Havoc slipped from his grip and fled into the night just before Hylas blacked out.

11
    H ylas is dreaming that someone’s brushing snow off his face.
    â€œYou should be ashamed of yourself, Flea,” growls the man in the dream. “Mountain boy like you, getting caught in a snowstorm!”
    That voice: strong, smooth, startlingly familiar. Hylas’ heart leaps. “ Akastos? ”
    â€œShut up and drink this.” A spout is jammed between Hylas’ teeth, and he chokes on vinegary wine. He can’t see, but he’s sure it’s Akastos: wanderer, blacksmith, exile, murderer haunted by the spirits of vengeance. Hylas admires him more