The falling debris roused Arak. He rose to a crouch, crawled stiffly across the ledge to where Alayin lay.
'Stay where you are,' Bran shouted down. 'Don't move.'
Arak was shaking Alayin. He didn't seem to have heard Bran. At first, Alayin didn't respond; then her head twitched. The instant she stirred, she started to slide towards the drop.
'No!' Bran cried. He let the rope slither through his fingers, ignoring the burning in his hand and in the pit of his arm. But he fell too slowly: Alayin was slipping inexorably over smooth ice towards the waiting precipice. The movement restored her senses and she flailed her arms, but there was nothing to hold on to. She teetered on the brink.
Arak scuttled towards her like a spider. His feet flew sideways, kicking away the swathe, which had landed on the ledge next to him. The strange weapon spun out into space and disappeared into the sea below.
At the last moment, Arak's thrashing feet found some hidden purchase. He threw all his weight into Alayin's path. Alayin's ivory furs blossomed around him and, like the swathe, he vanished.
Bran came to a bone-wrenching halt a single arm's length above Alayin.
'More rope!' he shouted. But there was no more. 'Alayin,' he said, 'Look at me.'
Her scarred face lifted to his. She looked serene.
'I came so close,' she said. 'I just wanted to be free.'
'You will be,' said Bran.
He held out his left hand: the crippled one with its livid starfish skin and twisted bones. The hand that had been struck by a star.
Alayin extended her long, perfect fingers. Instead of taking Bran's hand, she stroked it.
'Why would you do this for me?' she said.
'Just take my hand!' Bran could feel his good grip slipping on the rope. If she didn't take hold now ...
'Why?'
'You skinned the bear,' he said. 'You didn't run. You faced the monster and took its skin and made it your own. Whatever was in you that day, don't give it up now. Not for this. Not for him.'
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the steady tinkle of ice crystals raining down into the invisible sea.
Alayin's right hand clamped on Bran's burn-scarred wrist, then her left found his forearm.
With a great bellow he scooped her up and held her. She was lighter than he'd imagined she would be—too light to be real. Then the wind sucked Alayin's furs up around her; they opened like wings, revealing Arak.
Arak was standing tall on the ledge's crumbling verge, supporting Alayin in his upstretched arms. He'd been taking her weight all this time. It was his strength alone that had supported her long enough for Bran to lift her to safety.
'She must live,' Arak said. His eyes, which had been so wild for so long, were calm at last.
'She will,' Bran replied.
Arak's feet lost their hold on the ice, and his arms lost their hold on the woman he loved and who could never be his. Bran was holding the full weight of her now; though he heard the bones of his back creaking, he knew he could support it.
Arak fell.
The fog parted, opening the way for him, all the way down to the sea below and the rocks that crowded its edge like waiting teeth. Arak hit a sharp ridge on the tallest of those rocks, and the sound of him snapping reverberated up the cliff face just as if lightning had parted the air. The boy rolled with the foaming waves, his face peaceful.
As the men of Creyak lifted them to safety, Bran watched the sea wrap itself round Arak and bear him away. The boy floated briefly before he was sucked down into Mir's embrace. Some of the paths to the afterdream lay hidden in the deeps. Bran knew this well, because Keyli had taken just such a path herself.
As for what would await Arak when he reached the other side, Bran could only imagine. He hoped it wasn't the hell they all said it would be.
'He killed the king,' said Bran.
'He saved my life,' said Alayin. 'That will save him, in the end.'
'How do you know?'
'Everything must be repaid, sooner or later.'
'Everything?'
She kissed his cheek. The scars on her face were coarse on his skin. 'I owe you a debt, fisherman, and you have my thanks. That will have to be enough, for now.'
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Talus helped Bran up over the edge of the cliff and back to solid ground. Anonymous arms found Alayin and spirited her away into the crowd. For now, Talus was concerned only with his companion.
'You were brave,' he said.
Bran sat with his head between his knees, clearly dizzy. When he tried to get up, Talus pressed him back down.
'Alayin ...' said Bran.
'Is safe. You did well.'
'I wasn't going to let you risk your life down there. Sometimes you can be so stupid, Talus.'
'At least I have you to point it out to me when I am. Can you stand?'
'Yes, please, help me up.'
Two groups of men stood facing each other on the broad ledge. At the head of one was Farrum, bent and old. Fronting the other was Tharn, bent too, not from age but from injury. Lethriel was beside him, holding him up.
Most of the men carried their stone weapons in plain view, but their muscles were relaxed.
Axes hung heavy; chert knives and bonespikes pointed not at the enemy but towards the icy ground.
All the anger had gone out of the night.
Tharn and Farrum eyed each other for a long time. Finally Tharn spoke.
'There is a new king in Creyak,' he said.
'I see him,' said Farrum. The wind ruffled his white hair.
'This new king is different to the old. He brings with him a new season. A thaw is coming, Farrum. If you stay, you may be washed away by the meltwater.'
'I have no plans to stay.'
'That is good.'
A pale phantom drifted into the empty space between the two ranks of men. For the briefest moment, fantasy and reality merged and Talus found himself staring directly into one of his own tales. The phantom was an ice-bear, come to claim its prey.
Talus shook himself, and saw that inside this cloud of ivory fur there was only a woman.
'Tharn,' said Alayin, 'I'm sorry. I know it's not enough, but it's the only thing I've got left to say. And it's the truth. I'm sorry for the evil we've brought.'
'I believe you are,' Tharn replied. He faltered, coughing. Red sputum stained his lips. 'But if you stay I will kill you with my own hands.'
Alayin's eyes flickered. 'I understand.' She turned to her father. 'What will you do with me?'
Farrum glared at her, a scarred and ancient warlord shamed into retreat. His hand dropped to his waist, but he was no longer in possession of the obsidian blade. What would he have used it for if he hadn't given it over to Arak? They would never know.
'Father?' said Alayin.
Farrum extended his hand. 'You will come home, daughter,' he said. 'You will come with me to the place where you belong.'
Without waiting for her, Farrum led his men towards a narrow cleft at the far end of the ledge. The cleft opened on to a narrow path leading down the side of the cliff to the beach. The ground to the left of the path was a slick, steep chute of ice.
'Watch your step, old man,' Tharn called, 'or you will reach the bottom sooner than you expect.'
Alayin followed her father without speaking. She stepped on to the path without looking back, taking care to avoid the treacherous chute. Already Farrum and his men were out of sight.
Soon Alayin was too.
Tharn turned his attention to Mishina. The shaman stood a little apart from the Creyak warriors, motionless even in the rising wind, like a totem. A small smile played on his mud-daubed face. The paint had smeared, disrupting the pattern of black and blue dots there. The medicine man's true features were beginning to show through at last. 'You have brought misery to my people, shaman,' said Tharn. 'I advise you to run, before the spirits of our ancestors find you and take their revenge.'
'I have no need to run, little kin
g,' said Mishina. 'But I will walk. It is something I have grown very good at over the years.'
There was something in Mishina's tone, the way the moonlight cut across his half-seen face, that brought Talus up short.
'Walk then,' said Tharn. 'You have no place among us.'
'On that point,' said Mishina, 'I have to agree.'
Yet the shaman lingered, eyeing the bard. Talus returned his gaze. What lay behind Mishina's mask? He was curious to know. Curious too to understand why it was suddenly so important to him.
As if he could read Talus's thoughts, Mishina stooped, picked up a handful of snow and started rubbing it against his face. The white snow turned blue and black as it picked up the mud he'd painted there. Coloured flakes fell to the ground. Slowly the shaman scoured away the mask he'd been hiding behind since the day Talus and Bran had arrived in Creyak.
At last Mishina brought his hands down. His face was hardly clean: stray streaks of paint still adhered to his chin, his cheeks, the long line of his nose. But it was revealed.
Talus looked long and hard at the mastermind responsible for Hashath's death, and for all the trials Creyak had suffered since. He felt cold and hot, both at the same time. His limbs wanted to move, yet he was frozen to the spot. He could feel his eyes opening wide, and could only imagine what expression the shaman had coaxed from his own disobedient face.
'You,' Talus said. The words did not seem his own. 'It is you.'
The shaman bowed. As he straightened again, he looked triumphant. Talus had seen that look before, long ago in a hot and sandy realm. The look of a warrior-priest who, alongside his cruel king, had attacked a desert temple and driven a queen into exile. A man at the head of an army that carried blades made of black volcanic glass. How could Talus not have known?
'You,' Talus repeated. He lunged.
Mishina sprang aside, brandishing his staff. As Talus stumbled past him he swung it, narrowly missing the bard's head. The shells on the staff jangled; several broke free from their thongs and bounced across the ice and over the cliff edge.
'Talus!' cried Bran. 'What's going on?'
Regaining his balance on the slippery ground, Talus made another grab for Mishina. This time his bony fingers caught on the shaman's robe. They curled and clung and, for an agonising breath, they were face to face.
'I swore I would find you,' said Talus. 'Yet I never believed I would.'
'That is the difference between us, bard,' said Mishina. 'It is why I succeed and you fail. I believe. You do not.'
'I will make you pay for what you did.'
'I think not.'
Mishina ducked and wriggled, twisting himself entirely free of his robe. Naked, he sprinted towards the path at the end of the ledge, all trace of his limp gone.
'You think your prize lies north?' he called over his shoulder as he ran. 'I have been there, bard, all the way, and that place is not what you think. You will fail, Talus. The bone hunter will bring your story to an end.'
Approaching the path, Mishina dropped to his knees. Momentum carried him forward; he wasn't running now but sliding over the ice. Instead of choosing the safe way, however, he steered himself into the steep-sided chute. With an ululating howl he slithered over the edge and plummeted out of sight.
Talus stood dumbfounded, his narrow chest heaving. The shaman's empty robe dangled from his hand. He couldn't believe what he'd just seen—more to the point, what he'd failed to see until now. 'Talus?' said Bran. 'What was all that about? Should we go after him?'
'He was here,' said Talus slowly. 'All this time he was here, right under my nose. I saw everything else. But I didn't see him.'
'Who? Who was he?'
Talus could say no more. His head wasn't just buzzing—it was screeching. A swollen hive of enraged bees. He wanted to run after Mishina, to bring him back, to subject the shaman to all the questions that had plagued him over the years.
But he couldn't move a single muscle in his body.
Talus had forgotten the name Mishina had gone by in the desert. That bothered him: his memory was usually faultless with such things. Just another part of the man's strange guile.
Or, just perhaps, his magic.
Was he magic? Who could say? Talus had met again the man who'd destroyed everything Tia had built—a true adversary of old—yet all he could think of was the story Tia had told him about the northlight, and which had set him on the path he now walked.
It was only after the temple had fallen, when they were wandering lost and alone in the desert, that Tia had finally revealed the true identity of the travelling man from whom she'd heard the story in the first place.
'It was him,' she'd said, naming the warrior-priest, naming Mishina. 'He looked like a beggar then, but I know now it was the same man.'
'He must have been spying on you. Gathering information for his king.'
'I suppose so. It doesn't matter now. He told me that, when his work was done in the desert, he would go north himself, to see what he could see. I asked what work he meant, but he didn't answer. Now I know.' She'd gripped Talus's hands. 'When you go north—no, don't deny it, I know you want to, have wanted to ever since I told you about the northlight—promise me this: if you ever meet him again, kill him.'
Talus had never killed a man in his life. Even looking into Tia's eyes, he didn't know if he was capable of it. All the same, he said:
'I will.'
Yet, when the moment had come when he'd faced the warrior-priest once more, Talus hadn't even recognised him.
'Will you take his place?'
Talus returned from his reverie. Tharn was before him. As he spoke, he tottered in the snow; several of his men rushed to catch him but Tharn shooed them away.
'What? Whose place?' said Talus. Tharn's words had barely registered.
'You know who I mean. Will you be a wise man to us, now that Mishina is banished? For all his failings he was strong.'
'Strong?' Bringing his attention round to Tharn was hard, but by degrees Talus managed it.
After all, he was in the presence of a king.
'Yes,' said Tharn. 'I see the same strength in you, bard. But there is more: what I have just witnessed tells me you have walked under the same skies as our shaman-that-was. The two of you are connected. It is a sign. Just as Mishina was destined to leave us, so Talus was destined to stay.'
Talus shook his head. The pressure inside was beginning to ease. 'I am no shaman. I am just a bard, a mere teller of tales. As for Mishina ... yes, we share a connection. But do not ever imagine we are alike.'
'I did not say that. Will you stay?' Talus gazed at the chute down which Mishina had fled. Perhaps there was still time to pursue him. Perhaps the shaman lay at the bottom of the slide with all his bones broken, his naked body slowly caking with salt from the sea and snow from the sky.
Somehow he knew it wasn't so.
'No,' he said. 'Bran and I must leave in the morning. Our work here is done.' The words echoed in his head, a bitter reminder of another man's work in a different land, a different time.
'Then I am sorry,' said Tharn. 'Will you at least stay long enough to tell us one last tale, bard?
We go now to the cairn. I must say my last goodbyes to my father and brothers. I would have you there with me when I do it.'
Talus bowed low. 'I will come when you call.'
Tharn rested his hand on Talus's shoulder. 'Thank you.'
The king departed then, hobbling away on Lethriel's arm, leading his men through the tunnel and back to the henge, and leaving Talus and Bran alone on the ledge.
Bran slumped in the snow. He was clearly exhausted. Talus sympathised. But he couldn't rid himself of the image of Mishina's naked face.
He must have known me all along!
The wind gusted. Bran shivered. Talus hardly felt it. He was more concerned with the storm blowing through his mind. In an effort to escape it, he tipped his head back and gazed up at the stars.
'We should get back under cover,' sa
id Bran. 'The night is cold.'
'No.'
'Why do you always have to ...?'
'Look up, my friend.'
'Talus, let's just ... oh!'
Dazzling veils of pure green light had overwhelmed the black night sky. They rolled like ocean waves, shifting colour to turquoise and blue, orange and silver. They fluttered like the wings of a million butterflies. In their beauty and their silence they stilled the turmoil in Talus's cluttered mind.
'The northlight!' said Bran said. 'It's so beautiful.'
'Yes,' said Talus. 'That is the truth.'
As the northlight danced in the heavens, the wind forced the last streamers of fog out to sea. With the air finally clear again, the tops of the waves appeared, shimmering under the moon, under the many colours of the shifting sky.
A pale shape swooped low over their heads. Bran cried out; Talus might have done so too, had he not recognised it for what it was: a winter owl chasing some small rodent through the snow.
The breath of the bird's wings was soundless on his face.
As if the owl's flight were a signal, the northlight began to dissolve. It happened fast, the myriad colours softening to a uniform glistening green before departing. As he always did when the northlight left them, Talus felt sad.
Looking west, he watched the last few remaining shards of light chase across the horizon like shining leaves caught on a hidden breeze. Their glow played over the ocean, stretching all the way to Creyak's barren north shore where the cliffs rose high and wild.
A big grey shape emerged from between two rocks and ploughed towards the deep:
Farrum's boat. Long oars pulled at the white-capped waves. At the boat's prow, a carved wolf's head scanned the distant horizon, seeking the way home.
'Well?' said Bran.
'Well what?' It was immensely peaceful standing here in the snow. Talus didn't want the moment to end.
'Are you going to tell me what that was all about?'
Talus rubbed his hand over the top of his bald head. Already he could feel his thoughts growing agitated again. But that was all right. A man could only stand still for so long.
'What what was all about?'
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