Young Cillian Falconer stood at the edge of the vast, village-dotted plains of Trona, knee-deep in the summer grass. A huge bird with dappled copper plumage perched on one arm, talons digging into the protective sleeve. He scanned the landscape with narrowed eyes. A dozen feet away, the grass rustled, and he tossed the rock concealed in his free hand toward the movement. A small fox appeared and darted into the woods.

"Fly, Aoife!" The sandy haired boy thrust his crooked arm into the air, and the young hawk tore skyward. She screeched and streaked toward the forest, an arrow of darkness against the sun. Falconer took off after her into the trees, rabbit-hide leggings protecting him from the bramble.

Boy and hawk pursued the prey, each aware of nothing but the hunt. Aoife's amber eyes locked on the fleeing creature with a sharpness to match her master's gleaming knife; Falconer's face flushed with eagerness.

The bird dropped; the fox yelped as claws and beak ripped into his flesh, then whirled on her with a snarl. Falconer leapt the brook and joined the fight, plunging his blade deep into the beast's heart. It barked sharply and toppled over, then was still.

Aoife settled onto the lad's sturdy shoulder a moment, head high and eyes bright to match his, then pushed off once more to circle above in search of more prey. Falconer gazed at her, admiring her beauty as the breeze lifted her higher. His mouth turned up in a smile and his heart warmed. He turned back to the carcass and began skinning it.

A bird screamed. Terror struck Falconer's heart. His head whipped up as a body fell toward him heavily and landed beside him with a thud. It was Aoife. One wing was crumpled, pinned beneath her; an arrow pierced her bloodstained chest. She was dead.

Falconer stared, unwilling to believe. He made no move toward his companion's lifeless body; rather, one hand remained curled into the russet fur at the fox's neck, the other still clutched the dripping knife. His lower lip began to tremble.

A splash behind him broke the silence and the hunter within forced him to his feet. A girl lay unconscious, half in the icy water of the brook, a wickedly curved bow grasped in one fist. The designs etched along its length matched the tattoos on her face and arms. Even as he watched, she began to stir and dragged herself onto the near bank.

She sensed his presence. Quick as a hare, she was crouched on all fours in the brush, tensed to spring away. Falconer said nothing, but his eyes hardened. The girl stood. She nodded toward Aoife. "The body." She started forward.

"You killed her."

The girl halted, dark locks falling into her face. She fixed him with a wary gaze. "Yes. I was hunting her. She came in the forest. I need my catch."

"My bird. You killed her. You…" His voice trailed off and the girl said nothing. "You killed my bird!" He fell on her then, like a ravenous wild thing on a cat. His knife slashed blindly and his empty hand groped for her throat. She balked, and bared her teeth. She sunk them into his flailing wrist. He howled in pain, swiping at her eyes as the knife dropped from his grasp. His curled fingers yanked her hair. She kneed him in the stomach and twisted free. Falconer bent double, gasping for air.

He wept then, great, heaving sobs that wracked his whole body. His wrist bled freely, unnoticed. The dark-faced girl stood silent and watched.

"Why?" Falconer's hoarse whisper finally came.

"I hunt for souls. I need a catch." Her voice was low and volatile, as much a wild thing as she. "I bind them to me."

Falconer looked at her. His expression was sorrowful, any trace of anger gone. "But she's bound to me. What could you want with a poor boy's half-trained hunting bird? And what good will she do you now? She didn't need to die." The lad was coming into manhood. The drying tears on his face were not of innocence, but for it. Something that was no longer pity came into the girl's eyes.

"She is force. She is proud. I must have these things to fight. The wayward son of the jackal comes and Isis calls me close. I stalk his secrets with the panther in the barley grass, but I must fly into his towers, peck out his eyes, count his armies from above. This is why I hunt her." The girl's lips pursed, thoughtful, and she ran her hand through the shadows.

"The shadow purred and rippled; the boy startled as he picked out the shape of a great cat. Two holes in the shadow, spots of light, formed eyes. It stretched and twined around her legs. Fear and wonder rooted Falconer to the spot.

The girl let out a long, low whistle, not unlike the one Falconer's father had taught him to call for their birds. "She has a beautiful soul," the girl murmured, and she and the nonliving panther slunk away, fading into the trees. Falconer tried to follow, but already he couldn't see her. He glanced down; no tracks marked her coming and going.

A rustle of feathers and the kiss of a breeze on his cheek made Falconer turn. A darkness wove through the trees around him. Awed, he hesitantly lifted his left arm. The darkness angled toward him and glided down through the fast approaching dusk. A familiar shape alighted on the proffered arm, weighing it down with nothingness. Two pricks of orange-tinted light fixed on the boy's face.

A tear escaped, running down his stained cheek and neck, disappearing beneath his rough tunic. "Aoife," he murmured, and she clucked at him softly. He brought his arm closer and the shadowy head nuzzled into his face. The light was fading fast. "Oh Aoife, my Aoife, sweet little songbird. None of Da's chicks was bright as you. I'll never fly another speckled hawk. You're my one and only, lass." She ruffled her wings and preened. He could barely make her out. "I don't want you to leave –" His voice broke, and he pressed his forehead to her back, stroking her side softly, fingers dark in her shadows of feathers.

The sun set. He could no longer feel her. A last sob escaped him and he reached to yank the arrow from the body beside him, but she was gone, somehow taken by the soul-hunting girl. All he could find of Aoife was a single, copper-colored feather. He tucked it into his belt.

Bound to the girl or not, his bird was not gone from him. He could feel her soul in his. Heaving the half-skinned fox carcass over his shoulder, the young falconer turned to home.