Tharn glared at Farrum. The visiting king's face was as white as his hair, the scars standing out even whiter. He looked very old.
'Not safe enough,' said Tharn. 'Old man, I will put you and your men in a place no man can escape from. You will stay there until I decide what is best.'
'Tharn,' said Bran. 'I don't think Farrum is ...'
'Enough!' Tharn's face turned scarlet. 'I am the son of Hashath! My word is truth! Do you understand?'
He turned to face the crowd. He lifted his axe high above his head.
'Do you all understand?'
As one, the villagers dropped to their knees. So did Farrum and his boatmen. When Bran realised he was the only person left standing, he bent and paid his own respects to Creyak's king-to-be.
He looked round for Talus and Lethriel. They were some distance away, kneeling like the others. They were deep in conversation. As Bran watched, Lethriel nodded twice, then picked herself up and scurried away across the shingle.
What was Talus up to?
'My word is truth,' Tharn said again. 'Get up, old man. Let's see if you are brave enough to face the spirits who have guarded this island since the time of the dreaming past. Let's see if you are brave enough to endure the gaze of the dead men of Creyak.'
He surveyed his people.
'Take them to the totem pit,' he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Talus had seen totem pits before, but nothing on this scale. It was so artfully designed, he thought at first that Gantor must have made it. But it was much too old for that.
The pit was hidden behind the cairn in a natural cleft where, years before, the cliff had collapsed. Further excavation had created a deep chasm big enough to hold fifty men. It would swallow Farrum and his little entourage with ease.
The sides of the hole were shaped such that the floor of the pit was much wider than the opening at the top. Anyone who found themselves at the bottom would be surrounded by steeply overhanging walls that were impossible to climb. They would be trapped.
One by one the Sleeth men were lowered into the pit by rope. The first man down was Lath.
He'd recovered from his drinking bout and the bruise on his forehead was beginning to turn yellow.
When his feet reached the pit floor, he shook off the rope, turned and shrieked.
Talus peered down into the pit. Lining the walls leaning in at the same steep angle were dozens of totems. The smallest of them was man-sized; most were much taller. They were carved from the solid rock of the cliff itself; It must have taken colossal effort to hew them out. Their faces were those of anguished souls and malicious spirits, an endless parade of monstrous visages designed to keep prisoners not merely subdued, but terrified out of their wits.
One look at the gibbering, cowering Lath told Talus how effective the totems were.
'Talus!' Bran's hand landed on his shoulder and spun him round. 'I thought I'd never catch up with you.'
'The people of Creyak have an effective prison, do you not think?' Talus replied.
'Never mind that. Where's Lethriel?'
'Lethriel?'
'You sent her somewhere. I saw you. What are you playing at?'
'I am not playing, Bran. It is better you do not know where Lethriel has gone. Just believe me when I say that, when she returns, I may have all the answers I need.'
Bran's hand twitched beside the haft of his axe. His cheeks flushed, proving to Talus he'd made the right decision in keeping his companion and the woman apart.
'Tell me where she is!'
'I will not. To do what she needs to do, Lethriel must move like a mouse. You, Bran, as many people have already remarked, have more of the bear about you.'
'If you've put her in danger ...!'
'Bran—as long as we remain here, we are all in danger.'
One by one, the rest of the boatmen followed Lath into the pit. Last to go was Farrum himself. All the way down he glared up at Tharn, who regarded the old man's descent with angry intensity.
Once all the Sleeth men had been imprisoned, Mishina took over the proceedings. His face still bore the blue-and-black pattern of dots Talus had watched him apply in his house earlier. Had that really been only this morning? It seemed so long ago.
Having cleared a space at the edge of the pit, Mishina stood with his staff raised in both hands above his head. He began the same guttural chanting he'd used inside the cairn. Without echo, in the fog, the chanting sounded ghostly and unreal.
The crowd that had gathered took up the chant. Mishina began to sway. Tremors ran through his shoulders, his hips. The tremors became quakes. The shaman's head snapped back. Soon his entire body was gyrating, almost out of control. The shells on his staff rattled and sang, a strident percussion that cut through the somehow liquid sound of the chanting.
As the noise reached a climax, Mishina's body went rigid and he fell backwards. Nobody moved to catch him. He hit the rough ground and lay there, twitching, foam bubbling from his lips.
The chanting stopped.
Mishina's eyes fluttered in their sockets. The crowd looked on in adoration. Talus wished he could share their awe. As far as the people of Creyak were concerned, their shaman had left his body to fly with the spirits.
If that were true, why could Talus not sense it? He was proud of his ability to observe the world around him. Surely a man of his talents should be able to detect at least something of what a shaman like Mishina claimed he could experience?
But, although Talus looked as acutely as he knew how, the air surrounding Mishina was still.
No rippling, no wraiths, no disturbance of any kind at all. If the spirits existed, they were entirely invisible. Nor did they make any sound, nor smell. When he flicked the end of his tongue through the air, he tasted only the salt from the sea.
Nothing. There was nothing.
Yet everyone believed there was. Bran believed it. Tia had believed it. Shamans the world over traded in those beliefs. But did that mean they believed it themselves.
Did Mishina?
'There's something not right about Mishina,' said Bran.
The words—not to mention the track of Bran's thoughts—startled Talus. 'Why do you say that?'
'I don't know. It's just a feeling. What do you think?'
'I think ... I am coming to believe that Mishina may not be what he seems. He behaves differently to other shaman I have met. Most men like him use drugs to help them enter a trance.
Mishina does not.'
'How do you know?'
'I have observed him.'
'Doesn't he use greycaps? I thought Lethriel collected them for him.'
'She does. But he encourages her to do this because that is what a shaman is expected to do.
I do not believe he actually uses them.'
'What makes you say that?'
'The pit in in his house where he keeps them is thick with dust and fragments of greycap. No true shaman would be so clumsy with such a precious item. I suspect that, after he has received them from Lethriel, he crushes the greycaps and gets rid of the remains. No, the greycaps are simply another part of Mishina's mask.'
'If Mishina isn't a shaman, what is he?' Bran took a step away from Talus, his eyes suddenly wide. 'You think he's the killer, don't you?'
'It is not as simple as that. Do you remember the game of stones and grids Arak spoke of?'
'Yes, but why ...?'
'I believe Mishina plays games as well. Imagine: he takes a stone and he moves it into place.
He moves another, and another. He stands back and considers the field of play. He watches over all that lies before him, decides upon which rules will be followed ... and which will be broken.' Talus paused. 'But it was not Mishina's hand that drove the bonespike into the chest of the king. Nor did he upset the boulders that killed Gantor.'
'Poor Gantor. He didn't deserve to die.'
'Indeed. Yet I fear his death may not be the last.'
Mishina was coming out of his t
rance. A pair of women helped him to his feet. Murmured conversation was beginning to break out among the villagers. The shaman's performance was over.
'Talus,' said Bran, 'are you going to tell me who ...?'
Before he could finish the question, Tharn stormed up to them, dragging Alayin behind him.
His brothers had joined Mishina at the edge of the totem pit. Fethan had hooked Farrum's black-bladed swathe on to his belt. Arak and Sigathon huddled close together, a little apart from the others. Cabarrath towered over them all. His arms were folded and he glowered down into the pit where Farrum and his men were trapped.
'The totem pit is strong,' said Tharn. 'But men are stronger. My brothers will guard the traitors. The rest of you will come with me to the feasting circle. That includes you, bard.'
Talus walked with Bran in the footsteps of the king-to-be while the rest of the crowd followed.
Whispered conversations came and went in the throng—mostly speculation about what Tharn was planning—but Talus ignored them. For now all was well. The totem pit was secure and Lethriel was busy with the task he'd set for her.
As for Tharn himself, he was more concerned with not letting Alayin out of his sight. His hold on her arm was firm, and expression was grim. She stumbled at his side, limping a little on the ankle she'd twisted when he'd thrown her from the boat, entirely submissive.
By the time they reached the arena, the fog had begun to disperse. Lacy afternoon light rippled down through the tremendous aperture in the overhanging roof.
Tharn dragged Alayin past the heap of ashes lying beneath the gigantic smoke-hole: the remains of the previous night's bonfire, still not cleared away. A large boulder stood on the far side of the circular space. When they reached it, Tharn turned and thrust Alayin into Bran's arms.
'You will hold her,' he said.
'Do you trust me this much?' he said.
'If you allow her to escape, I will kill the bard.'
Tharn seized Talus's wrist—his grip was strong—and hauled him up on to the boulder. The arena was filling up with both the people who'd followed them from the totem pit and those who'd come out of their houses to see what was going on. Soon all Creyak was there.
Talus willed his body to relax. Despite Tharn's threat, he didn't believe he was in danger. In fact, he knew exactly what the king-to-be wanted him for.
Tharn raised his hands. Gradually the crowd fell silent.
'Death walks among us,' he said. His voice was soft and full of menace. It carried all the way from one side of the arena to the other. 'I am here to send death away. I am here to tell you that the time of old king is gone. The time of the new king has come.'
The crowd listened as Tharn spoke on. So did Talus. He used words well. In another place, another life, he might have been a bard.
By the time Tharn's speech reached its conclusion his voice was ragged, his face drawn with heavy lines. His breath made billowing clouds above his head. The crowd was hushed, clearly impressed by his oration. Here was Hashath's eldest son, next in line, claiming his rightful place at their head. This was the undeniable way of things.
Tharn ushered Talus to the front of the boulder. 'I am sorry I forced you here,' he murmured.
'You are king,' said Talus. 'It is your right.'
Again Tharn faced the crowd—his people.
'Talus will give us a tale to mark this day,' he boomed. 'Bard—make it a tale of glory. A tale to fill up the king's day with fire.'
This was just what Talus had expected. But his mind was blank. As he looked out at the expectant faces, panic threatened to seize him. Was this the moment when the great river of stories ran dry? When he opened his mouth and no words came out.
Among the faces were those of Bran and Alayin. Both looked tired and defeated, as if they'd trekked a long way across strange lands. Well, they had. Alayin's fur hood trembled in the breeze blowing through the arena: a dark woman wearing the pale skin of an ice monster.
And the story came to Talus at last.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
'One day,' said Talus, 'a king stepped out on to the far northern ice in search of a monster.'
The entire crowd leaned in towards the boulder. Already Talus had them. With just a few simple words, the bard had gained as much attention as a king might hope for in a lifetime.
'The king took with him three loyal hunters,' Talus went on. 'Each was brave and wise, and each had sworn his life to his master.'
'I suppose you've heard this one before,' Alayin whispered to Bran.
'In two years I've never heard Talus tell the same tale twice,' Bran replied.
He wondered if Alayin would try to run. He didn't much care whether she did or not ... except for what that might mean for Talus. Up to now, Tharn hadn't struck Bran as a cruel man. But he was no longer just a man. Now he was a king.
Now he'd caught his audience's imagination, Talus went on to describe the characters of the king and his hunters. The crowd was captivated. Bran, however, was finding it hard to focus on Talus's words. This felt like one of those stories where nothing much happened for a very long time.
'Why did you lie to me?' he said.
'I said what I needed to say,' said Alayin, 'to protect myself.'
'So why are you really here? Did you have something to do with the murders? Don't lie to me, Alayin. I'm tired of all that. Just tell me the truth.'
'You already know what the truth is, Bran. It's right in front of you.'
'I don't know what you mean.'
'Tell me what you see.'
She stood back. Bran studied her: a tall, proud woman swaddled in ivory furs. Her back was straight; her chin jutted. She exuded such an air of control it was hard to believe she was supposed to be his prisoner. He wanted to dislike her: she'd made him feel foolish. But something had risen in her that he hadn't noticed before. 'You're trapped,' he said slowly.
Her taut muscles relaxed. 'There,' she said. 'That wasn't so hard.'
'It's your father, isn't it?'
'My father. The men I fall for. Everyone.'
'What do you mean?'
'Some women ... some women have a shape that fits the arms of men, a shape that fits this world ...' Alayin worked her hands, trying to mould the thoughts she was struggling to express. 'That is not my shape. I want to be my own, Bran, but I am not. Do you understand? I am not my own.'
Bran shook his head. She puzzled him, this strange woman from an island he'd never seen.
Her scars were a mask behind which her true face was sometimes hidden, sometimes revealed.
With a start, he realised he'd forgiven her lies.
He plucked a tuft of ivory fur from her hood.
'People talk of ice-bears,' he said, 'but you never meet anyone who's actually seen one.
They're just monsters from stories.'
'I am proof they're not. Don't you believe the truth, Bran, even when it's before your eyes?'
'Did you tell Sigathon the truth? Or Cabarrath?'
'What?'
'I know you were with them both.'
'Oh. Well, that's all over with.'
'Are you sure?'
'Cabarrath was a good man. But Sigathon ... he was a mistake. Beside, after all this do you think I'd willingly pair myself with another of these wretched brothers?' Her voice filled with sudden venom. 'Do you think that's what I would choose?'
'I think Sigathon killed Hashath.' Bran immediately regretted saying it. But, now the words were out, he rolled them through his mind, testing them.
'Sigathon?' said Alayin. 'That's ridiculous. The boy's an idiot, but a killer? Why would you think such a thing?'
'He acts as if he's drugged. Talus said ...'
'Talus? Oh, your friend up there. Is he really a bard? He looks like a wading bird. Do you heed everything he says, Bran? Do you believe all his stories?'
Bran resisted the urge to shake her. No wonder she had no man if this was how she carried on.
Talus spread his arms wide
and launched himself into the main narrative of his epic tale.
'And so came the day,' he said, 'when the king and his three hunters finally set out on their great quest. On the first day, the first hunter found the tracks of a tremendous beast in the snow.
Each paw was bigger than a house. Each claw was bigger than a man. The hunter followed the tracks into a blizzard, and was never seen again ...'
Bran listened with only half an ear. The crowd pressed close against him. Suddenly he was the one who felt trapped. Death had come to Creyak, and it hadn't yet left. What were they doing standing around listening to Talus prattle on?
'I don't think I like this story,' said Alayin. She wriggled her body inside her furs. 'I don't want to hear it.'
'Well, we can't go anywhere. Anyway, what's wrong with the story?'
'It's as if he knows.'
'Knows what?' Alayin was trembling. Bran supposed she could use some comfort. But if he put his arm around her there was no telling how the watchful Tharn might react. 'Knows what, Alayin?'
'Knows about me.'
'How could Talus possibly ...?'
'It doesn't matter. Be quiet and listen to the story.'
Now Talus was telling the crowd how the king and his two remaining hunters searched in vain for their companion. Normally Bran was happy to hear one of Talus's tales. Not this time. 'Why do I get the feeling you've got a story of your own?' he said.
'Everyone has a story. Don't you?'
'Will you tell me yours?'
She closed her eyes. 'Very well. My story is also about a journey across the ice. And a hunting party. There were four men altogether. And there was me. I was hidden in one of the sleds. I wasn't supposed to be there. Women aren't allowed to go on hunts.'
Bran opened his mouth, about to make some remark about her being a compulsive stowaway. The faraway expression on her face changed his mind.
'We travelled one whole day before making camp. That was when they found me. One of the hunters—an ugly man called Grantha—tried to rape me but the others killed him before he could ... before he could finish.'
'Killed him?'
Alayin shrugged. 'I am the king's daughter. If I'd been harmed, their lives would have been forfeit.'
Talus and the Frozen King Page 16