Talus and the Frozen King (18 page)

The way he'd found what might have been the beginnings of answers, only to lose them before they could properly form.

Then there was the jungle realm Mishina had spoken about. Even reaching such a place was a fantasy he could scarcely imagine. What manner of boat could have carried Mishina all the way across the western ocean and back again?

Suddenly the world seemed very big, and Talus very small. So many sights to see, so many questions to answer, and only a single lifetime in which to do it all.

'Can we come in?' said Arak.

Talus forced aside thoughts of jungles and deserts and beckoned the two youngsters inside.

Although they were close in age, they were not alike. Sigathon was short and solid. This was the first time Talus had seen him without the black paint on his face. His resemblance to Gantor was striking.

Arak was the same height as Sigathon, but thin and wiry. Unlike his brother—who looked ready to fall asleep—Arak was bright-eyed and alert. He was just as much a fidget now as he had been at the feast, glancing from side to side and continually scratching the back of his neck.

'Which one of you is older?' said Bran.

Arak laughed. He had an easy grin, and an open face. Sigathon looked as if he'd never cracked a smile in his life.

'He is,' Arak said, jerking a thumb at his brother. 'By exactly twenty-one breaths. That's what our mother says anyway.'

'So you are twins?' said Talus.

'Yes. We're not exactly identical, are we?'

'Likeness is not always in the skin. Do you do everything together?'

'More or less. Is it all right if you talk to us both at the same time? We've got nothing to hide.'

Just as Cabarrath and Fethan had done before them, the two young men seated themselves by the fire. Arak's enthusiasm meant that Talus didn't even need to ask the first question.

'We were together all night,' said Arak. 'Sigathon and me. We sleep in our father's house. He was there too. It was just an ordinary night. Towards dawn, our father left the house. Sigathon and I had woken early and were playing a game—we scratch patterns in the ground and move coloured stones from place to place. We pretend we are the stones. The stones fight and remove each other from the pattern.'

'Is that why the king left?'

Arak squirmed. 'I suppose we were being a bit noisy.'

'At what point did you realise something was wrong?'

'When we heard Fethan screaming.'

Arak scrubbed at his neck. Sigathon showed no more animation than one of the village totems.

'Tell me about this game,' said Talus.

'You mark out lines on the ground. Then you cross them with other lines. Each person takes a number of stones—one takes red, the other black—and you move the stones from one place to another.' Arak licked his lips, clearly excited. 'There are rules that make it difficult to move certain stones in certain directions.' He stopped, suddenly embarrassed. 'Anyway, it's a lot of fun.'

'Who told you these rules?'

Arak's embarrassment became shyness. 'Nobody. I invented them.'

'You are very clever, Arak,' said Talus. But it was Sigathon he was watching. There was a complex relationship here, one he was keen to understand. Could there be not one murderer but two? Two young men who did everything together, each perfectly placed to cover the other's tracks?

'You both still lived with your father?'

Arak looked surprised. 'Of course. We have only fifteen summers each.'

Fifteen years old. In many communities—perhaps most—they would already have had children of their own.

'Hashath liked to control his children, didn't he?' said Bran.

'It was his way,' Arak replied.

'Didn't you want a house of your own?' said Bran. Talus listened, content to let his companion take over the questioning.

'That time will come soon.'

'Not soon enough!' said Sigathon.

Bran jumped. The ferocity of the elder twin's voice startled Talus too.

'What do you mean?' said Bran.

'Be quiet,' Arak hissed at his brother.

'No!' said Sigathon. 'I've been quiet long enough!' His eyes rolled blearily, sliding over Talus before fixing on Bran. 'He said we could never leave his side. He said we were his pet wolf cubs.

Pets? More like prisoners!' He gave a little howl, like a lost pup.

'Prisoners?' said Bran. 'What do you mean?'

Arak seized his brother's hand, but Sigathon shook him off, fighting what appeared to be exhaustion.

'Just that! Do you know when our father was happiest? When the tide was in and the causeway was covered and nobody could get to the island. He stopped talking to anyone outside Creyak. He stopped trading with them. He stopped making war. He even stopped making peace. He stopped everything. Winter fell on him and he just ... froze.'

'He cut himself off,' Bran said slowly.

'Himself and all the rest of us,' said Sigathon. His sudden burst of energy was spent. His broad shoulders dropped and his mouth hung a little open.

Talus was beginning to understand just how much power the dead king had enjoyed here. At last the screaming totems made sense: they were perfect for scaring people away from the island.

For keeping everything—and everyone—inside.

'Tell me, Arak,' he said. 'How did you feel about all this?'

'My brother is hot-tempered,' Arak said quickly. 'What he says is ... well, I suppose it's true.

But we don't all feel about it the way he does.'

'So you did not mind being your father's pet?'

'We all find ways to escape.'

'Your games?'

Arak scratched a hasty criss-cross of lines in the dirt floor. Into them he pressed dots, making a complex geometric pattern. 'I suppose so,' he said at last.

'It is no wonder your hands are dirty,' said Talus, 'if you are always scraping them on the ground.'

'They're not that bad,' said Arak, displaying grimy fingers with a lop-sided grin. 'And you,' said Talus, turning his attention to Sigathon. 'If your brother escapes into his clever thoughts, where is your haven?'

Sigathon sat, square and solid. He looked exactly like his brother, Gantor, and almost as lifeless. Slowly, he raised his left hand, extended a finger and tapped the side of his head. He lowered his hand again, tightened his lips to a thin, white line and said nothing more.

'Sigathon was with me all the time,' said Arak as the silence deepened. 'Truly he was.'

'It is a shame there was nobody else in the house,' said Talus. 'And so no way to confirm your story is true. Is there anything more you want to say?'

Arak thought for a moment, then shook his head.

'What a strange couple,' said Bran after Arak and Sigathon had left.

'They are damaged, I think. Both of them. Proof that the blood of family makes stains that are not always visible to the naked eye.'

The mourning song floated out of the fog, like the cry of a whale lost far out to sea. Talus imagined the entire vastness of the world hanging just out of reach.

Why was he finding it so hard to concentrate?

'It's a good job you let me ask some of the questions,' said Bran.

'Oh? Why do you say that?'

'Because it strikes me this mystery is all about real human relationships. You know, the messy kind?'

'What are you trying to say, Bran?' In the depths of the fog, shadows came and went.

'Only that human relationships aren't exactly your strong point.'

'And I suppose you are an expert?'

'I'm not saying that.'

'Then what are you saying, Bran?'

'Just that ... well, I'm more experienced with that kind of thing.'

'Are you saying I have no experience of life?'

'Of course not. I'm just saying you're ...'

'What?' For some unaccountable reason, Talus's eyes were stinging. 'What am I, Bran? Tell me that much! What am I?!'

Under other circumstances, Bran's expression of surprise might have been amusing. Talus was more concerned with the unexpected passion their meaningless argument had kindled in him.

'I'll tell you what you are,' said a woman's voice from just outside the doorway. 'You're just about the strangest man I've ever met.'

Lethriel stepped into view. Her appearance shook Talus. He'd had no idea she was there.

'What are you doing here?' said Bran. His words were stilted.

'I wanted to ask you not to say anything about ... what you saw.'

'You mean you and Tharn together?' said Bran. 'Don't worry—Talus knows all about it too.'

'Oh.' Lethriel was blushing. Talus wondered how people could get so distressed about what was simply normal animal behaviour.

'But I won't tell anyone else,' said Bran.

'Is that all you wish to say, Lethriel?' said Talus. 'Hurry, please. The king-to-be will be arriving at any moment.'

'No, that was all.' But, instead of leaving, Lethriel loitered in the doorway.

'Really?' said Talus.

'Yes ... no! I'm sorry, I was outside. I couldn't help overhearing. What Sigathon said—that little outburst of his -it reminded me of something.'

Talus felt his irritation subside. If she had something useful to say, the least he could do was hear it. 'What did it remind you of?'

'A conversation I overheard between Sigathon and Tharn. It happened a few days ago, before Hashath was killed. I never thought to tell you about it before.'

'Then tell me now,' said Talus. 'But, I beg you, be quick.'

'All right. I was delivering herbs to the king's house. Tharn and Sigathon were in there alone, talking in hushed voices. I didn't want to interrupt them, so I ...'

'Listened in?' said Bran.

Lethriel's blush deepened. 'They were talking about Farrum. About Alayin, actually. Alayin is ...'

'Farrum's daughter,' said Bran. 'We know.'

'Oh. Well, Sigathon said something about love being stronger than the king. It struck me as an odd thing to say. I mean, it's odd for Sigathon to say anything at all lately, but that ...'

'How did Tharn reply?' said Talus.

'The sorts of things an older brother says. He told Sigathon to be sensible and do the right thing. He was placating him, I suppose. But Sigathon just kept going on and on about love being strong. As strong as a wolf, he kept saying. He talked about riding the wolf. And he talked about escape.'

'Is that all you remember?'

'Yes. I couldn't hear everything. Now I tell it back, it sounds even stranger than I thought at the time. I'm sorry, I know it's probably nothing.'

A stocky figure appeared, striding towards the house out of the fog.

'Please,' said Talus, 'will you leave now?'

Instead of obeying, Lethriel scurried over to the pit where the peat-bricks were stored and lowered herself into it.

'What are you doing?' said Talus.

'I want to hear what he's got to say.' Lethriel dragged the cover-stone halfway across the opening so she could both breathe and hear. 'You won't even know I'm here.'

Talus felt a flash of heat deep inside his gut. Was this what Bran felt like when he lost his temper? But ... perhaps there was sense in what Lethriel was doing.

'Listen well, then,' he said. 'And afterwards, tell us if you have learned anything new about the man you love.'

Lethriel's eyes bobbed just above the level of the floor.

'I'm sorry,' she said. She wasn't talking to Talus now, but to Bran.

'What for?' he said.

Before she could respond, Tharn, the eldest son of the murdered king of Creyak, entered.

'I have little time for this,' said Tharn without preamble.

'It is necessary,' said Talus. 'You know that.'

The mourning song was an almost physical presence in the fog. There were words inside it, and a melody that seemed always to descend and never to rise: a endless low lament filled with darkness and desperation.

'The procession has begun,' said Tharn. 'Creyak is preparing to say its final goodbyes to the king. I had hoped you would be finished by now.'

'This will not take long. I simply wish to know where you were when your father died.'

'I was out walking on the cliffs near the henge. I do not sleep well. I never have. When I get restless, I go out so as not to disturb my brother.'

'Your brother, yes. Cabarrath told me something different. He said you were in the house with him all night.'

'And I tell you I was not?'

'Why do you think Cabarrath lied?'

'To protect me, I suppose.'

'Does he believe you did it?'

'Killed my father?' Tharn shuddered. It seemed a genuine reaction. 'No. Cabarrath knows I did not do it.'

'Can you say the same about him? Please, tell me only what you know to be true.'

'Cabarrath has always liked his secrets,' Tharn said at last. Tears began to roll down his cheeks. 'But he is no killer.'

'Secrets?' said Bran. 'You mean his affair with Alayin?'

'How do you know about that?'

'Go on, Bran.' Talus sat back. This was interesting. 'I think Cabarrath wasn't the only one to fall for Alayin,' said Bran. 'I think Sigathon did too.

And I think he spoke to you about it. Am I right, Tharn?'

Tharn said nothing.

'Did it even stop there?' Bran spoke loud, almost as if he wanted to make sure Lethriel heard every word. 'Did she work her way through all of you, one by one?'

Talus was surprised. Bran had made a connection he himself had failed to make. Alayin and Sigathon? It made sense of the youngster's strange talk of love and wolves.

The bard was surprised all over again when Tharn started sobbing. His shoulders heaved; great, gasping moans tore their way up from his chest. They mingled with the whale-song drone of the mourning tune.

There was sudden movement as Lethriel burst out of her hiding place. She shoved the heavy cover-stone aside, ran to Tharn and wrapped her arms round him. She kissed his wet cheeks, his brow, his lips.

Talus observed the exchange with simple curiosity and considered the darkness of the deeds that could result from the brightest of passions. Bran just glared into the fire.

Gradually, Tharn's tears subsided. He wiped his eyes and squeezed Lethriel tight. Then he pushed her gently away.