Talus and the Frozen King (12 page)

In seeing how the stones must have fallen, he saw too what must have driven them to fall.

He opened his eyes again.

'Gantor had his back to the boulders as they fell. The position of his legs tells me he tried to run. It was not Gantor who brought down the stones.'

'An accident, then?'

'Did you not see the ends of the ropes? They were cut clean. And the largest of the stones could not possibly have fallen unless it was pushed from behind. No, I am certain Gantor was murdered.'

Bran gave a vast yawn. 'Talus, I'm tired. I'm sure Lethriel is too ...'

'I can speak for myself,' she snapped. 'Who killed them, Talus? Gantor and the king. Do you think it was the same person?'

'It is likely. Just as it is likely the murderer placed this behind the door to the afterdream.'

Talus brought out the bonespike again. 'Are the people of Creyak allowed to enter the cairn at all times?'

'No,' said Lethriel slowly. 'On ritual days, the villagers may enter for the ceremony.

Otherwise only the king and his heirs are allowed inside.'

'Nobody else? Not even the shaman?'

'Well, obviously him.'

Lethriel looked agitated. Talus decided not to pursue it—for now.

'Very well,' he said. 'Let us talk about the shaman for a moment. Where does Mishina live?'

'Don't you know? I thought you knew everything.'

'If I passed the shaman's house, its door was closed to me.'

Lethriel stabbed a finger towards an empty space in the exact centre of Talus's map. 'There. And there's a reason you won't have seen into his house. But this ... this has nothing to do with the killings. Please, can't you put that bonespike away?'

'If you had to choose a herb to mark the house of the shaman, which would it be?'

Talus spun the bonespike in his fingers, enduring her glare. Finally she stomped over to where Bran was sitting. Her agitation was fascinating.

'Out of my way,' she said.

Bran stood. She shoved aside the stone he'd been sitting on. Beneath it was a deep hollow.

She rummaged in it for a moment before holding up a tiny, wizened object.

'What is it?' said Bran. 'Does the shaman like dried fruit?'

'Hardly,' said Lethriel. 'It's a kind of fungus, very rare. I gather them along with my herbs, but it's better if people don't know where I keep them.'

She threw the hideous thing down in the middle of the map. Her distress was obvious.

'Greycap,' said Talus. It was just what he'd been expecting. He wondered if Bran knew of the mushroom's special properties—and why, therefore, Lethriel kept it hidden. 'Thank you, Lethriel.

You have answered my question and explained a great deal.'

'Have you finished your games?' said Lethriel. 'Are you going to take my question seriously now?'

'I take all questions seriously.'

'Who killed them?'

Her voice cracked with a sound like splintering wood. Her eyes were filled with anguish. No wonder: she'd just lost a man she held dear. Talus felt pity for her. But it was a distant emotion, overshadowed by his own overwhelming curiosity. What was she holding back?

'Ah, we come back to the question!' Talus rubbed his hands. 'Sad to say, I do not know. Yet.

But we have this!'

Again he brandished the bonespike. Again Lethriel flinched.

'Whoever hid this in the cairn either killed the king or knew the killer. So our eyes turn back to the king's sons. Unless ... Lethriel, are you sure you told me the truth about the cairn?'

'I don't know what you mean?'

'Are there any others, apart from the king's sons, who are allowed inside? Any women, for example?'

'Why would I know such a thing?'

'You know it. That is all that concerns me.'

Lethriel's eyes flared with defiance. 'Say what you mean to say!'

'Very well. As the keeper of herbs, are you, Lethriel, able to come and go as you please, in and out of the cairn, so as to keep the dead smelling sweet?'

'You know I am!'

'And as a server of food to the king, do you also come and go in his house, whenever you choose.'

'Yes!'

'Catch!'

Talus tossed the bonespike to her. She raised her hand instinctively to catch it.

Her left hand. 

Lethriel stared at her fingers as if they'd betrayed her. She opened her hand and let the bonespike fall to the floor.

'Talus, surely you don't think ...' said Bran. Talus raised a finger to silence him. A blush was rising up Lethriel's face.

'If either of you think it,' she said, 'you can leave this place right now.' Her hands and voice trembled as she spoke.

Talus stroked the top of his head. 'It does not matter what I believe,' he said. 'All that matters is what I know.'

Lethriel's cheeks showed no sign of losing their scarlet hue. 'You are a strange man.'

'Yes.'

'But clever.'

'Yes.'

'Then tell me, clever man, what is it you really want from me?'

'You claim you are innocent of murder, Lethriel. I want you to prove it.'

'If you think I killed the king, you're no smarter than starfish,' Lethriel's body shook as she spoke.

'Why do you say that?' said Talus.

'Do I look strong enough to drag a man the size of Hashath through the snow?'

'Perhaps you were not alone.'

'I didn't do it.'

'So you say.'

Lethriel stamped her foot. 'You really are stupid!'

'Is that what you believe? Or is it what you know?'

Talus's face was calm. Bran wasn't surprised at Lethriel's reaction. Sometimes, when he was arguing with the bard, Bran felt like the ocean beating itself to a froth against a particularly smug rock.

'Does it give you pleasure to do this to people, Talus?' he said.

'I do not know what you mean,' the bard replied. 'She claims she wants to help. That is what I am helping her to do.'

'You're not helping her. You're driving her. You might as well take a stick and ...'

'You're talking about me as if I'm not here!' said Lethriel.

'Then speak for yourself!' said Talus, matching Lethriel's suddenly sharp tone with eerie accuracy.

'What I know is this: at the moment the king was killed, the two of you were plodding down the south cliff making ready to cross the causeway and stir up trouble. I know this because I was on the south cliff too, gathering the herbs you've so gleefully scattered across my floor. I saw you.

Earlier this evening you accepted my word on this.'

'You spoke the truth,' Talus agreed. 'For that we are grateful.'

'Then believe what I have to say now.' She took a deep, snuffling breath. Little by little, the hectic colour was fading from her cheeks. 'Like you, I heard the screams of my people across the water. As I said, I was high on the moorside path, looking down. At the same time, I saw you both, like insects, stepping out across the causeway. The sun was low, barely risen. It looked as if you were walking on water.'

'Go on,' said Talus.

'I gathered my bundles and ran. I knew something was wrong. By the time I reached Creyak, Hashath had already been carried to the tomb. I was too late to do anything. Too late to help. So, you see, it doesn't matter that I use my left hand instead of my right. I wasn't there. I couldn't have been, not if I saw you as I say I did. I couldn't have killed the king.'

'I know,' said Talus.

'What?' 

'Just as you saw us on the cliff, so I saw you on the moor. When I saw you again later, first in the king's house and then at the feast, I recognised you.'

'Recognised me? But you can't have seen my face. I was so far away.'

'Your hair gives you away. And your height. And the way you walk. Faces are just the surface of people.'

'You ... so why did you make me go through all this?'

'I did not want you to prove your innocence, Lethriel. I wanted you to prove your ability to use your mind.'

The blush gathered anew round Lethriel's bare neck. Bran hated Talus for teasing her like this. But he was relieved to know she wasn't a killer.

'You were testing me.' To Bran's amazement, Lethriel laughed. 'You cruel, clever man—you were testing me!'

Talus clapped his hands. 'So. Now, it is time for us really to get to work!'

He crouched over his map and started sketching lines in the dirt floor. Lethriel watched him for a while with wide, appraising eyes. Finally she joined him. Outside, the moon rose out of sight.

Inside the chamber it grew dark again. The moan of the wind drifted in and out, sounding more than ever like the voices of the dead.

As the night rolled on, Talus tossed out one theory after the next, describing any number of possible ways in which the king might have been killed. Bran added his own thoughts when they occurred to him, but mostly he left Talus to it. The bard's mind was like a running horse: get too close and you risked a kick to the head. Lethriel, however, seemed to be keeping up rather well.

He found himself watching Lethriel. So like Keyli, yet so unlike her too. Bran had never met a woman more gentle than the wife he'd lost; Keyli had been the calm to his storm. Lethriel, however, had a temper to rival the fiercest warrior. To rival Bran's own, actually. Was it her grief, he wondered, making her like this, or her nature?

He imagined lying with her. What would it be like? There had been nobody since Keyli's death. In the dark of the night, Lethriel would look just like the woman he'd lost. He imagined caressing her, saying nothing to her for fear of calling her the wrong name. Did she bring her temper to her bed? The thought excited him.

Bran suddenly realised Talus was speaking to him.

'What was that?' he said.

'If you were not listening,' Talus replied, 'then clearly you have nothing of value to add to the discussion.'

'I was thinking,' said Bran.

'About what?'

'Nothing important.'

'I thought not. However, I will ask you again: have you noticed anything unusual about the behaviour of any of the king's sons?'

'You mean apart from Fethan trying to kill me?'

'I am aware of what Fethan did. Is there anything else?'

Bran thought hard. 'Well ... Cabarrath did look nervous when Gantor spoke to him, just before he died. More than nervous, actually; he looked guilty.'

Talus nodded. 'Gantor said, "You." Do you know what that was about?' he said to Lethriel.

She shook her head. 'Is there anything else, Bran?'

'I don't know. The youngster—Arak—is a bit twitchy. And the other one ... Sigathon, is it?

The one who paints his face black. He hasn't said a single word since we arrived here.'

'Sigathon is a quiet one,' said Lethriel. 'Talus, are you certain it was one of the king's sons that killed him? There's a whole village of people here. It could have been anyone.'

'No,' said Talus. 'It could not. Bran will tell you why.'

Bran sat up straight. It was typical of Talus to put him on the spot—punishment for his daydreaming, he supposed. Sometimes the bard made him feel like a child in need of correction.

'Well ...' he said slowly, trying to gather his thoughts. It was hard, when his mind kept filling up with images of Lethriel unwrapped from her furs. 'I suppose it's like you said before: most killings are done with passion. The killer is usually family, or a close friend ... or a lover.'

Talus raised his eyebrows. 'Did Hashath have a lover?'

Lethriel shook her head. 'After his wife died, the king was alone.'

'Very well. Nevertheless, what Bran says is true. And we must also remember that this is no ordinary murder. This is the murder of a king. In order to do the deed, the killer must have found a way to put aside all fear of his eventual punishment in the spirit world. Either that, or he was mad.'

'There are no madmen on Creyak,' said Lethriel firmly. 'Hashath drove out anyone who was not ... to his liking.'

'Really?' Talus stared at her. 'That is interesting. We will talk more of it later.'

'There's another possibility,' said Bran.

'Yes?'

'The killer doesn't believe the spirits can hurt him. I don't know ... maybe he doesn't believe they exist at all.'

Both Talus and Lethriel looked at him in surprise.

'That is quite a thing to say,' said Talus slowly. 'Have you ever met anyone who thinks that way, Bran?'

'No, but ...'

'Then it is settled.' Talus was suddenly all briskness and efficiency. Bran wondered why he was so keen to change the subject. 'While nothing is certain, it remains likely our killer is one of the king's sons. Nothing, however, is certain.'

'You mean your map hasn't been any use?' said Bran.

'A map is just a picture,' said Talus. 'When you look into a picture, just as when you look into a fire, patterns are revealed. Ideas come to life. Have you not noticed this?'

Bran caught Lethriel's eye and shrugged. She mimicked his gesture. They both smiled.

Talus started breaking up his map. Lethriel helped him hook the various bundles back in place on the ceiling. Bran carried the stones outside and scattered them on the ground.

Fog had obscured the mainland. It seemed to glow with a light of its own. Somewhere, unseen, the sun had risen, heralding a new day. The wooden pillars of the henge were twisted phantoms looming from swirling cloud. A gust of wind touched Bran's face and he flinched.

A figure stepped out from behind one of the pillars. It was Mishina. His face, striped alternately yellow and white, seemed to float in the fog.

Bran pressed his hand to his chest. For a moment he'd thought his heart had stopped.

'The bard is summoned,' said Mishina.

Something about Mishina's presence here unsettled Bran. The thought of meeting ghosts had been bad. Meeting the shaman was somehow worse.

Bran had never met a shaman he liked. He understood the value of these spirit-walkers, the way they mediated the relationship between a settlement's people and their ancestors. But Bran was—or had been—a fisherman. If he'd had a connection to the spirit world it had always been through the sea, through Mir himself. Every day he'd ridden the waves, in direct and intimate contact with everything he believed, everything he trusted, everything he dreamed.