Still Waters

by Marilyn Todd

  Iliona dabbled her hand in the crystal-clear waters of the deepest lake known to man, watching the sandy beaches and stony shores slowly recede, while the islands loomed larger and larger. Black Isle. Snake Island. Devil’s Isle. Nothing to offer a fisherman comfort out here, should a storm spring out of nowhere. That’s why they painted eyes on the prows of their boats. To watch for evil, and keep them safe on the water.

  Geese sailed between the islands like a fleet of triremes, their orange bills held high, facing into the breeze. Once migration started, they would be among the last to leave. Perhaps that’s why they sailed with such poise and conceit. Kings and queens of the lake.

  But what of the creatures who lived in the mountains, forced to endure snow, ice and gales for months without end? There were risks in migration, but greater hazards in surviving the cold. In a matter of just weeks, the wooded hillsides, now a patchwork of rich autumn colours, would be a leafless desert. Howling Mountain was the name given to one. Wolf Canyon. While the hills of dry scrub were no less forgiving. Dry Spur. Mount Hopeless. Vulture Peak.

  Both the Eagles and the Bulls, it appeared, treated their territories with caution and respect, knowing exactly what the seasons and the gods were capable of. Quite right, too. Without fear there is no sense of danger, she thought. Presumption is a deadly indulgence.

  ‘Here.’

  Once they were clear of the islands, Lysander drew a small red clay flask from under his seat, unstoppered it and offered it across.

  ‘A liqueur made from the root of those huge yellow gentians that grow so abundantly in this particular region. Stimulates the appetite and improves the digestion, I am told.’

  The little parcel of elecampane powder slipped into her hand. ‘Thank you, but my appetite’s fine and my digestion robust.’

  ‘Try it. The taste will surprise you.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that.’

  ‘Hm.’

  His lips pursed for two or three seconds, then he took a swig from the bottle himself. The stiletto slid down her arm as she studied the muscular, bronzed thighs that bore the scars of more than one battle. The bulging biceps that dealt death with sword, rope, dagger and more.

  ‘You really are too quick to condemn a man, my lady.’

  In an instant, the powder and knife had been twisted out of her hand and were sinking into the water. She hoped he did not see her flinch.

  ‘And you are too slow to trust.’

  Who knows what manner of commander they would appoint in his place, if push came to shove and she was forced to use the bevelled blade strapped to her calf. But surely no successor could be as cold, calculating or callous.

  ‘These gentians,’ he said, through a mouthful of gravel. ‘Did you know that each tiny flower lasts only one day? But during that one day, it is visited by scores of insects, and so many flowers make up each whorl that the display continues to flower for weeks.’ He took another swig. ‘The word, I believe, is symbiotic.’

  The word, Iliona believed, was bullshit. She looked at him, completely at home in his rough fisherman’s tunic, and thought, hell, it might even be true, that he needed her here. But when those services were no longer required, she would be cast away like dust in the wind—

  ‘Yvorna was murdered,’ she said.

  Measureless eyes stared into hers for what seemed like hours, but was, in reality, no more than ten seconds. ‘I know.’ He leaned back in the boat. ‘On the pretext of helping to carry her home, I examined the body. I found several large wounds on the back of the girl’s head, suggesting a sustained and vicious attack.’

  ‘But everyone thinks she hanged herself.’

  ‘That’s because people always believe what they see, and since the blood had been carefully washed out of her hair, what would make them look beyond the obvious?’

  The art of illusion doesn’t rely so much on accuracy, as the conviction with which it’s carried off.

  ‘Why made you look beyond the obvious?’ she asked.

  ‘Same reason as you.’ A muscle twitched at the side of his mouth. ‘Gregos, the gold, a missing groom, a dead wrestler. Even before my soldier was killed, that was a lot of activity, even for a busy posting station like this.’

  This time when he offered the clay flask, she accepted.

  ‘Surprising, isn’t it?’ he rumbled. ‘For a bitter root, you’d expect a bitter liqueur, but for something that’s been mashed, fermented, boiled and matured in oak barrels with honey, it’s not bad.’

  Like mead, the liquor trickled down her throat and curled up like a cat in her stomach.

  ‘Not bad at all,’ he said levelly.

  She watched dragonflies zip back and forth across the beds of placid yellow water lilies. Listened to the screen of reeds rustling softly in the breeze, while eels seethed in the clear blue lake many cubits down. At the bottom, it was said tall, waving palm trees grew out of the sand. But then legend also had it that fairies colonized these islands and dragons lived in caves deep inside the mountains. That’s why the Eagles built altars under the stalagmites and left fresh meat as a sacrifice.

  But whether you believed in such stories or not, Yvorna would never again watch white puffs of clouds drift low over these hills. She would not run in the snow or skate on the ice, feast on the freshwater crabs that made their homes in this lake, or hear the cry of the ravens.

  Aren’t you curious to know what’s ahead?

  Hell, no. I like a challenge.

  What challenges are you facing right now, Yvorna? Are you happy at being reunited with your parents? Sad, that you never told your sisters you loved them? Angry at whoever did this?

  According to some, she’d hanged herself out of desperation, while others felt it was a cry for attention that went horribly wrong. From the outset, Iliona had no doubts it was murder.

  ‘Are you saying Yvorna was dead before she was strung up?’

  ‘The probability is extremely high. There was no blood in the hair after it had been washed, because dead bodies don’t bleed.’ Lysander steered the boat round Devil’s Isle towards the middle of the lake. ‘Neither do those on the cusp, though. But if you’re asking did she suffer, then I can reassure you on that. I suspect the first blow came from behind, taking her by surprise, given there were no defensive wounds on her hands and arms. If that didn’t stun her into unconsciousness, it would certainly have sent her flying, where other blows would have rained down very quickly. Murderers aim to kill,’ he added quietly. ‘Not engage in a fight.’

  The fact that his gaze was fixed on the circular shrine, reflecting in the tranquil waters, didn’t make this easier. Iliona thought of the tumultuous emotions boiling and churning within the confines of the station, becoming more concentrated with each day that passed.

  I’m not sure I can stick another season of noses poking where they don’t belong, Dierdra said.

  Who could blame her. From the outset, Iliona knew that keeping secrets was nigh on impossible.

  Those who kept them would need to guard them with their life…

  Scenes played in her head. Yvorna flirting with the men, as she filled their goblets with beer. Her dramatic winks, her controversial remarks, her couldn’t-care-less toss of the head. In her mind Iliona saw her skipping off to chat to the bone worker at the Feast in the mountains. Yet there was another side to Yvorna. There was the girl who’d been shaking Cadur’s shoulders down by the lake. The same girl who’d emerged, wiping tears from her eyes, from the storeroom.

  Bold-eyed and inviting one minute, solemn and earnest the next, what did that tell her? That Yvorna was the sort of girl where you never knew where you were? Or simply well-balanced and rounded?

  ‘Her murder may not be connected to the gold,’ she said, as much to herself as Lysander. ‘It could have been a spurned suitor—’

  ‘Who wouldn’t have gone to such extreme lengths.’

  He was right. This was personal.

  Her mind drifted back to the Axe God festivities. />
  Drink up, girls. Yvorna’s voice echoed over the lake, as did the rap of her knuckles on Calypso’s and Hermione’s goblets. Otherwise your throats’ll be too dry to cheer the little squirrels when the Axe God lifts them up to hang their dolls in the branches.

  Iliona’s throat contracted. Adorable, she’d said of the little fur tots.

  Not so adorable once you know the history. In the old days, those dolls were alive and kicking.

  The remark had spurred Iliona to take a keener interest in the white, woollen offerings. You mean hanged?

  I do mean hanged.

  Coincidence?

  ‘There’s something else,’ the Krypteia said. ‘Do you recognize this?’

  In the flat of his hand lay a small silver owl, its unblinking eyes made of coral.

  ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘Pinned to Yvorna’s breast.’ He’d noticed it in Iliona’s bedroom, sitting in the little altar niche, the morning he slipped in through the window. ‘I’m assuming you didn’t give it to her, because she wasn’t wearing it at the Feast of the Eagles.’

  Haven’t seen Melisanne, have you?

  Oh, come on! Surely, if Yvorna had stolen the brooch, she would have looked—at the very least—uncomfortable at being caught in the act?

  What is she, half rabbit? she’d tutted instead. I tell you, if I did it half as often as my sister, I’d be fit for nothing. Morning, by the way.

  Was any neck made of such brass?

  All sorts of rumours have been flying around, Calypso said earlier. Like, she’d been robbing guests blind and was about to be unmasked, that’s why she committed suicide.

  Yvorna was no thief. Dierdra was adamant about that.

  Iliona tended to agree.

  She probably found the brooch, Finders keepers, she could hear her trill. Or was that just wishful thinking?

  The world looked different when you were drifting in the middle of the lake. From here, Zabrina’s kingdom seemed to stretch out for ever, a perception that was further distorted by the unusual clarity of the water. The Lake of Light. Named for its brightness and radiance, but also, perhaps, light as in weightlessness, too. Out here, with nothing below, there was a feeling of flying. Disconcerting and exhilarating at the same time. A space where time lost all meaning…

  ‘There were other things, too,’ Lysander said.

  From a small pouch, he tipped out a selection of rings, cloak pins, ear rings and brooches.

  ‘During the commotion of the girl’s body being brought home, I searched her quarters. This pouch was under her pillow.’

  Damn.

  ‘If you’re interested,’ he murmured, ‘the pouch is made out of crane skin.’

  Cranes could fly. Iliona wished she could fly with them. High, high in the sky…

  ‘I’m worried about Daphne,’ she said slowly.

  Lysander adjusted the sail, then the tiller, to turn the boat back towards home. ‘In what way?’

  ‘To be honest, I’m not sure. She’s lonely and confused, sometimes chewing her lip till it bleeds. But… Well, you only have to look at Lisyl and Melisanne. Their grief breaks your heart.’

  She’s fifteen, Hermione said. They bottle everything up at that age.

  ‘Her reaction’s not natural,’ she said. ‘Hermione and Calypso saw Nobilor as their meal ticket, so I assumed it was one of them who loosened a wheel pin on his chariot, or sawed part-way through the axle.’ Or at least paid someone to do it. ‘But all that resentment, Lysander.’

  From her mother abandoning her, to her lack of good looks, from being raised by servants to Calypso’s arrival.

  ‘Suppose it vented itself on her father? The one man who really cared?’

  He brailed the sail as they approached the shore. ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then talk to her. Not as a friend, but as Dike, demanding justice. As Nemesis, wanting retribution. Burn some herbs, blow some smoke, be her father, wanting to know why.’

  ‘Then what?’

  The wolf smiled. ‘One step at a time, Iliona of Sparta. First, you prove your case against Daphne.’

  The implication, of course, being that the Krypteia would take care of the rest.

  Iliona let her arm trail in the water. Warm on the surface, cooler the further her hand went down. Cold, so cold, at the bottom. The legend was comforting, that Zabrina rescued the drowned and gave them happiness for one thousand years. But the truth was, there was no comfort in death. None at all.

  And the centre point of death was the stables.

  Twenty-Three

  Below the path where Jocasta was standing, the silver sheet that was Zabrina’s kingdom sparkled under Helios’s rays. A heat haze melted the distant horizons, and the air was heavy with the wild thyme and oregano that grew by the waysides. If anyone asked, she was collecting lilies to take home to the new temple garden. The ones with curled-back, yellow petal and bright orange stamens. According to the porter, the best ones were up in the hills.

  ‘They grow best in the cracks in the stones.’

  Cracks that, when she was a child, Jocasta used to call the rock’s smile. There was nothing to smile about today.

  Help! She’d been packing up her physick table for the night when she heard the cry. Somebody help!

  At first, Jocasta was confused. She’d heard the unmistakable wailing and keening that accompanies death, even though, at that stage, she’d had no idea who had died. None of her business, and the kitchens had emptied like bats out of a cave, so there was no one to talk about it to, anyway. So when someone called for help, she immediately assumed the diagnosis was wrong and that the ‘corpse’ was actually alive. Instead: It’s Melisanne—

  —she’s collapsed—

  —had a seizure—

  —she’s dead!

  With everybody talking and screaming at once, it was like walking into a beehive. Quiet, she ordered. Move back, give me room to work and this poor girl some air.

  Melisanne wasn’t dead, of course, nor had she suffered a seizure. She’d simply fainted, which was not surprising in her condition. Jocasta had been mixing her infusions of peppermint, chamomile and lemon balm to calm the morning sickness, and had also prescribed drinking more fluids and taking more exercise. Sitting around, she explained, was exacerbating the nausea.

  As is hanging around the kitchens, she’d added wryly.

  Melisanne did not see the joke. Please don’t tell anyone.

  Fine, Jocasta had promised, though the secret would be out soon enough. Sickness didn’t start until the second month of the term, and the girl told her she’d been fighting it for a while. But you can only bind a bump for so long, Melisanne. After that, you’re risking your own life, as well as the baby’s.

  Maybe shame was holding her back, who knows. Certainly, no man stepped forward to help when she fainted. Perhaps the father was a traveller who had long since moved on? Like she said, it was none of her business.

  However, with Melisanne too weak to lay her sister out, Jocasta stepped in to close Yvorna’s eyes and slot the two obols between her teeth for the Ferryman’s fee. It was only when she was tying the chin strap, to prevent the jaw dropping open, that she noticed Yvorna’s hair was still damp. And when you plot rebellion, war and destruction on a regular basis, you become attuned to the nuances of suspicious death.

  I ought to be doing this, a rough, throaty voice rasped. I’m her friend. It’s my job.

  You have enough on your plate, Jocasta said gently, easing a teary, trembling Dierdra out the door. I didn’t know the deceased, so it’s better this way.

  She fastened the shutters, shot the bar on the door and turned up the oil lamps. Expert fingers quickly discovered head wounds beneath that wild tumble of curls. She lifted an eyelid. No sign of the tiny red spots that were characteristic of ligature strangulation. No discolouration of the whites of the eyes that would indicate a desperate fight for survival. None of the unusually pale skin that might be c
aused by the sudden pressure on the neck from a high hanging. No facial congestion and purple, protruding tongue if the victim had asphyxiated.

  Washing and preparing the corpse for its funeral rites, anointing it with fragrant myrtle and mint oils, Jocasta continued her examination, though by that stage she was already certain she was looking at a murder victim. Yvorna’s skull had been smashed and her body strung up, to make it look like suicide.

  So on the pretext of gathering lilies, she was now making her way to what she considered the scene of the crime, rather than a place of sanctuary, beauty and worship. But the path was steep, and the late summer air warm. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she paused to marvel at the sculptured cliff faces that plunged into the lake, said to be carved by the Titans, back in the mists of antiquity, before even the Olympians were born. In one or two places, close to the shore, tall pillars of grey rock stuck out of the lake. All that was left of a race of people who displeased the gods and were consequently turned into stone. Maybe it was true, she thought. Probably not. The gulls nesting on them couldn’t care less.

  As she continued up the twisting path, she noticed a field hand crouched on his haunches, counting the fish, or perhaps the swirls of the current. Then she remembered that field labourers wore broad-rimmed hats to shade them from the sun as they ploughed, planted beans, or dug carrots. When he shifted to a cross-legged sitting position, she saw that his tunic hung loose on his wiry frame and that his face was as finely sculpted as the rocks that he sat on.

  Jocasta watched Cadur for another couple of minutes, but he didn’t turn or move. Just remained staring out over the water. She continued her climb to the shrine of the Blue Goddess, pausing at the lustral basin to purify herself before entering the precinct. According to the men who worked at the station, the wood of this shrine stayed warm to the touch through even the coldest days of the winter. An illusion, no doubt, the oak being warmer than their freezing cold hands, but a comforting legend nevertheless. She filled her lungs with the air that was redolent with the scent of the rosemary, hyssop and thyme that made their homes in fissures in the rocks and were used to purify the goddess’ altar. The oak columns had been garlanded with flowers. Mainly cornflowers, asters and a few late roses, while pottery doves dangled from the gateway, the pebbles inside them chiming soft tunes in memory of the dead, whose souls they represented.