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Stone pillars rose at regular intervals, dividing the interior into a series of stalls. Talus knew without looking that each stall must contain the bones of many dead. He breathed in and tasted the herbs that hung here to sweeten the air. Beneath their aroma lurked the stench of decay.
    The tunnel grew narrower as it progressed, and the ceiling lower. This made the cairn seem much longer than it really was. At the far end stood a stone door, but it was so small that even a child would have struggled to use it. Not that any living person would have dreamed of trying to pass through that door: it was the final barrier between this world and the next.
    'I've got to get out of here,' muttered Bran.
    'There is nothing to fear,' said Talus. 'We have not left the world. This is not the afterdream.'
    'I haven't been near one of these places since Keyli died, said Bran.
    'It is just a place.'
    'That's just it. It isn't.'
    The king's body lay in an empty stall halfway along the cairn's throat-like interior. Tharn and his brothers crowded rounded it, their shoulders hunched to stop their heads banging on the low ceiling.
    The corpse lay on its back with its legs still frozen in their sitting posture—a pathetically comic posture. The temperature in here was not quite low enough to freeze water. As the body thawed and the immediate stiffness of death departed, its limbs would relax. By then, the smell in the cairn would be rich indeed.
    'I am Tharn,' said the king's eldest son. His words resounded. Echoes bounced back, rich and hollow. It sounded as if many people were speaking at once. Talus listened to the harmonies, intrigued. 'I come with my brothers: Cabarrath, Gantor, Fethan, Sigathon, Arak. We come to honour our king and father, who has left us to join his wife, our mother, in the afterdream. This is Hashath of Creyak, who is dead.'
    He took a step back. With a brisk wave, he beckoned Talus forward.
    Talus stroked his bald head with one bony hand. He'd come here with no real idea of what he would do. But that was his way. If you wanted to measure the currents of a river, what better strategy than to plunge headfirst into its waters?
    He turned to Fethan, raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Fethan's eyes darted naturally to the sound. With his other hand, Talus snatched up the bonespike Fethan was wearing on a thong around his neck—the same weapon with which Fethan had threatened Bran in the king's house.
    'Hey!' said Fethan as the thong's knot parted. His fingers became claws and he lunged for Talus. Cabarrath seized his younger brother round the middle, pinning his arms to his waist. Fethan thrashed but Cabarrath was strong. His height was against him though, and he kept cracking his head on the low ceiling. Every time he did so, he cursed.
    'Enough!' said Tharn. 'Fethan, be still! Bard, whatever it is you intend to do, be quick about it. I have no patience for this. And the afterdream is not a place to linger when the solstice is near.'
    Fethan grew sulky and his limbs stopped working. Cabarrath's face carried the ghost of a smile, but there was no humour behind it.
    For the second time that morning, Talus bent to the corpse of the frozen king of Creyak.
    What would he do? Still he had no idea.
    He ran his fingers over Hashath's skin. The flesh was hard like stone, and very cold. He explored the king's shoulder, then the frozen hands. He examined the tips of the king's fingers.
    Something was stuck under the nails. Interesting.
    He let his touch linger there.
    Finally, he raised Hashath's left arm to expose again the single tiny wound that—if his theory was correct—had killed the king. Moving the arm was difficult, but Talus was strong.
    Talus tilted his head. Bran sometimes told him he looked like a bird. He wondered if it was true.
    Then he took Fethan's bonespike and plunged it straight into the bloody hole in the king's side.
    With a roar, Tharn made a grab for Talus. But Bran was in the way. Bran set his feet and