Talus and the Frozen King (13 page)

Bran had never just fished with his hands. He'd always fished with his heart.

Those days were long gone.

'Who exactly is doing the summoning?' he said. 'And how did you know we were here?'

'The spirits know everything.' Cool eyes blinked from behind Mishina's painted mask. 'The bard is summoned by the king-to-be.'

'We will come,' said Talus, stepping up out of the shack. He straightened his robe and bowed his head. A few breaths later, Lethriel joined him.

'The king-to-be requires the company of the bard alone,' said Mishina.

'As I said, we will come. All three of us.'

Mishina's gaze slid first over Lethriel, then Bran. Bran's good fist clenched at his side.

Sometimes he was glad he had only one working hand. It meant he could get into only half as much trouble.

'Have you got a problem with that?' Bran said.

Yellow eyelids descended, flickered, lifted. The paint cracked around Mishina's lips. The shaman was smiling.

'You entertain me,' he said. He dipped his head in mimicry of Talus's bow. 'You will all come.'

With the coming of the fog, the breeze had dropped to nothing. As they left the henge, a cry followed them through the still, damp air. It might have been a gull on the wing, or a seal moving through the surf, or some final breath of wind through one of the ancient sculpted columns.

Or it might have been the voice of the lonely dead.

Mishina led them back through Creyak's eastern quarter to the house of the king. Talus walked at his side, though as far as Bran could tell the two men exchanged not a single word.

There was an awkward moment when the passage narrowed, forcing them to walk in single file. Bran and Lethriel each stopped to let the other through.

'After you,' they both said at the same time.

They looked at each other and laughed. Bran's laugh turned into a yawn. So did Lethriel's, and then they were laughing again.

'I was tired before the night began,' said Bran. 'My head will be in a fog today.'

'We will all be in a fog,' said Lethriel. 'See?'

She fluttered her hands through the thin grey mist drifting through the passage.

'It's come off the sea,' he said. 'You can taste it.'

'You know the ocean?'

'Yes. I'm a fisherman. Or was. Now I ...' Bran halted. What exactly was he these days? 'Now I travel.'

'Where are you travelling to?'

'The north.'

'Why?'

Which brought him all the way back round to Keyli again. 'Perhaps I'll tell you another time.

I'm sorry about your friend. About Gantor.'

'Thank you. Death surrounds us.'

She started to squeeze through the narrow part of the passage, but Bran pulled her back.

'Wait,' he said.

'What is it?'

'When you said that Fethan was interested in you, but that you weren't interested in him, I just wondered if ... after Caltie, has there been ...?'

'Anyone else?' Her smile was broad now. Bran didn't know if it was her expression or the way the light caught it, but suddenly she didn't look like Keyli any more. He found that a relief. 'Why do you ask me that question, fisherman?'

'I ... I know how it feels to lose someone you love.'

'I know.'

'You ... how do you ...?'

'I can see it in your eyes. What was her name?'

'Keyli.'

'Was she beautiful?'

'Yes. Yes, she was.'

'How did she die?'

The directness of Lethriel's questions unnerved Bran. This wasn't how he'd imagined the conversation going. 'It's not something I like to talk about.'

'Maybe you should. But if I've offended you, I'm sorry.' She touched the side of his cheek: a brief, surprising contact. 'Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?'

'Nothing. It's ...'

'Yes?'

'It's good to see you looking happier.'

'It's your friend—there's something about him that makes me smile. He's strange and exasperating, but there's something about him that makes you believe that ... that everything's going to be all right? Do you know what I mean?'

Bran nodded. 'I do.'

'Sometimes love comes again. We have to believe that, people like you and me, don't you think?'

Bran didn't dare answer. Incredibly, a new possibility had presented itself to him. Abandoning the quest didn't have to mean going home.

It could mean staying here.

When they arrived at the king's house, they heard raised voices coming from within. Inside, they found Tharn and Farrum standing on opposite sides of the hearth in which the remains of a fire guttered and spat. The two men looked like bulls ready to clash horns. They seemed oblivious to their visitors.

'You've been king for just one day and already you've lost control of your people,' Farrum was saying. As he spoke, the scars on his old, lined face moved with a life of their own.

'The people of Creyak are my business, not yours,' said Tharn, fighting to remain calm. 'Nor am I yet their king.'

'No,' said Farrum. His wiry body twitched beneath a cloak still damp and caked with salt from his ocean voyage. 'There is only one king in this house, boy.'

'You have your own people, your own isle. You have no power here.'

'Power lies where it chooses, boy.'

'Tell me why you have come. Or leave now.'

Mishina knocked his staff on the floor. The sound it made was no more than a tap, but it turned the heads of the arguing men. Farrum's face flashed with momentary annoyance before cracking into a broad smile.

'You didn't tell me you had other guests, young Tharn,' he boomed.

'I invited them,' said Tharn. Bran thought he looked relieved. 'I did not invite you.'

'Oh, you fret too much, Tharn. Take your father and me—there was always fire between us.

Most days we could never agree on anything at all!'

'I know.' Mishina tapped his staff again, harder this time. The shells that hung from it jangled. Farrum scratched his hands through his massive white beard.

'I suppose we can continue this argument later,' he said.

'Is that the only reason you came to Creyak?' said Tharn. 'To argue?'

'No indeed, boy. I had hoped to speak with your father about certain matters suitable only for the ears of a king.'

Moving with deceptive speed, Farrum darted round the fire. Before Tharn could react, the old man had grabbed both his ears.

'But, as you said yourself, you're only the king-to-be. Once these precious little flowers have grown into the ears of a true warrior, then perhaps I'll say what I've really come to say.'

Tharn shook himself free, pushed Farrum away. Bran was impressed by his ability to stay calm.

'Get out, Farrum. You have been given a house. Use it. Soon my father's spirit will pass through the final door to the afterdream. Then I will be king, and these ears that cause you such amusement will be ready to hear your words. Until then, you have nothing to say to me.'

'You've got your father's spirit, Tharn. There's hope for you yet.' Farrum crossed the room with that same eerie speed. In the doorway, he stopped and turned. 'By the way, if you really do want me to go, you'll have to send someone out to fix my boat. There's a gash the length of its hull, and here I am with no artisans on my crew.'

Robe flapping, he stepped out into the misty dawn.

'That man!' said Tharn. 'He can turn me to anger quicker than anyone I know. No artisans indeed! He will use that excuse to remain in Creyak as long as he desires.'

Mishina advanced. 'I have brought the bard as you asked.'

Tharn eyed Lethriel. 'And what is she doing here?'

'I'm here with Talus,' she replied. 'I want to help.'

Something passed between the two of them. Bran couldn't tell what it was. Residual anger perhaps; both were recovering from losing their tempers.

Then he noticed Tharn's cheeks were puffed and red. The man had been crying. Well, no wonder. In a space of less than two days he'd lost not only his father but one of his brothers too.

Lost them. Or killed them himself. Was it possible that here before them was the killer they were looking for?

'Stay then, Lethriel,' said Tharn, his voice softer. 'You are always welcome here.'

'May I ask why you summoned me?' said Talus. He looked like a man who already knew the answer to his question.

'You have shown yourself to be both clever and curious, Talus. Ever since I learned of my father's death, I find myself full of questions.'

'And grief, I suppose,' said Bran. He studied Tharn's expression closely.

'I loved the king! Do you not think I would feel grief?'

Bran bowed his head. 'Any son would mourn his father's death.'

'Indeed. But the questions remain. Who killed him, and why?'

'When we first arrived on Creyak,' said Talus, 'you showed little interest in such things. You wished only to send your father on his final journey. What has changed you, Tharn?'

'You, bard. You have changed me. The questions came first from you but I find myself unable to sleep for thinking about them. If I do not find the answers --' Tharn struck the heels of his hands against his temples '-- I will go mad!'

'Be calm, Tharn,' murmured Lethriel.

The king-to-be lowered his hands. 'Will you help me, Talus? Can you help?'

'Do you wish me to?'

'With all my beating heart.'

'Then it pleases me to offer you my services. Come: we have much to discuss.'

Talus seated himself before the dying fire. He extended his hand, inviting Tharn to join him.

Bran suppressed a smile. Already the bard was acting as if the place belonged to him. 'Lethriel,' said Talus, 'you will sit on my other side. And Mishina—you will do well just here.

Your voice is a powerful one, and must be heard.'

Mishina propped his staff against the wall and seated himself in the very spot Bran had been planning to occupy: beside Lethriel. Now she was squeezed between shaman and bard.

'I'll just sit here then,' Bran said, kicking a flat spot on the floor beside Mishina.

'On the contrary,' said Talus. 'You, Bran, will not be sitting at all.'

'I won't?'

'No. You will return to the beach.'

'What? Why?'

'You are good with boats. If anyone is able to help Farrum out of his difficulties, you are.'

'You want me to fix the boat?'

'I doubt there is anybody in Creyak who can do it.'

'Why would you say such a thing?' said Tharn.

'I say only what I have seen. I have seen many paths climbing up to the cliffs but only one leading down to the shore. I have seen a beach that is wild and untended. I have seen no boats.'

'We have boats.' Tharn sounded defensive.

'Dugouts?'

'Of course.'

'How many?'

Tharn squirmed. 'Not many.'

'Farrum's craft is not a dugout. It is made from a wooden frame covered in sealskin. It is big: thirty paces long by my estimate. To repair it, an expert boat-builder is needed. That is why Bran must go.'

It had been quite the night for tempers; Bran could feel his beginning to build yet again.

Controlling himself, he said, 'I could take a look. But do I have to do it right now?'

'The sooner the boat is mended, the sooner Farrum will be able to leave.' 

'So you also think Farrum should go?' said Tharn. He seemed eager for Talus's approval. 
Perhaps the bard reminded him of something he'd lost in his father.

'I did not say that. But it is clear Farrum is making excuses for not leaving. If we take those excuses away, we may learn what he is doing here in the first place'

'So you think he is lying?'

'I think we do not yet know the truth.'

'I suppose it wouldn't do any harm,' said Bran. He was talking to Lethriel, he realised. 'If there's nobody else here capable of mending it, I mean. It is sort of my speciality.'

If Lethriel was impressed, she didn't show it.

'So I'll be going,' he added.

'Take care on the path,' said Talus. 'It will still be icy.'

Talus turned his back on Bran and began to tell Tharn about the map they'd made, and of the various theories they'd discussed concerning the murders. Soon Lethriel was joining in, then the shaman and finally Tharn himself.

Feeling thoroughly rejected, Bran set off for the beach.

Bran had once considered himself a child of the sea. He'd been born and grown up in Arvon, living safe between the water and the high Nioghe mountains. His father had been a fisherman, and his fathers before him, all the way back to the dreaming shadows of older, colder times. Those fathers, like Bran, had dedicated their lives to Mir. Mir had blessed them with his bounty; in feeding them, Mir proved himself a bringer of life.

But Mir was also a destroyer.

On the very night Keyli had died, Bran had turned his back on the sea that had claimed her life. Had turned his back on Mir. He and Talus had walked inland until the walking had become a habit, the habit a friendship. Their journey north from Arvon had taken them through fair land and foul, but never back to the sea.

Until now. Now they were finally approaching the place where the land stopped and the great northern ocean began. If they wanted to continue their travels, they would have to give themselves over to the sea. Over to Mir.

And that was the problem. Even the promise of the northlight—Bran's dream of reaching its source and holding Keyli in his arms again—even that wasn't enough to overcome his fear that the instant he ventured out on the water Mir would take him down too.

This was the real reason Bran wanted to abandon the quest.

He was simply afraid.

Rounding the final corner of the path to the beach, Bran stepped from ice on to coarse shingle. All was grey in the morning fog. Low cloud hugged the clifftop. The waves were heavy, growling things.

Well, he didn't have to go near them.

Farrum's boat lay half on its side, just above the waterline. It looked like a stranded whale, and it was the main reason Bran hadn't put up much protest when Talus had sent him out here. He might have rejected the sea, but that didn't stop him loving boats. And this one was a real beauty.