‘All I want is to sleep,’ she whispered back.
Too tired to eat or drink, when servants brought pastries and fruit and cold meat and hot, spiced wine. But she stirred herself when they were escorted down the hallway to a room equipped for bathing. The hot water made her even sleepier: she collapsed into bed afterwards, clean and warm and sweet-scented, safe in Marith’s arms. In the silence as she fell asleep she could hear the sea, far off. And another sound, that might have been two young men talking together quietly.
She saw the next day, in the light, the size and glory of the place, that Marith had not been wrong to call it beautiful, though it was a beauty strange to her. It was a high, windswept tower, carved in white-grey stone. Outside, a wall enclosed a wide area of gardens and orchards and meadow grass, running in places right to the edge of a cliff falling off sheer into the sea. The wall was painted green and gold, the Relast colours. A well-made road, paved in the same pale stone as the keep, ran down to the town below that sat hugging the water, a jumble of dark roofs. Ships floated in the harbour in a blaze of sails: one, she guessed, must be the ship they had sailed in, whose captain had spared them several more days’ pain by running as fast as he could for Malth Salene and its lord.
‘What does the name mean?’ she asked Marith over what passed for breakfast, eaten well after noon when they had finally woken from exhausted sleep. ‘Malth Salene? I’ve never heard the word Salene before. It doesn’t sound Pernish. But it’s not Literan or Immish.’
He frowned a little. He had not looked happy since he woke, for all he seemed more rested and comfortable. ‘It’s Itheralik. Saleiot means “to shine” or “to sparkle”. “To dance like the sunlight on fast-flowing water”, perhaps. So Malth Salene: the Tower of the Shining Sea. It’s an old word. An old name. Older than the Relast family, as the tower is older than they are. As old as the lich roads.’ A look of pain again in his face that she could not understand; he itched at his eyes impatiently, turned his face away from the water that did indeed shine beyond the walls.
‘The lich roads … The dead do indeed walk there, I think,’ said Thalia. ‘It is good that they came for us, took us away. I would not have wanted to stay longer on that road.’
Marith raised his head sharply. ‘The dead …?’ He frowned again. ‘It is not only the dead who walk there, beautiful girl. The things that walk there—’
Yes, she thought. I know what walks there. It is good indeed, that someone came.
‘A seamstress is coming,’ Marith said suddenly, to change the subject. So much tension still between them. It does not occur to him, she thought, that I might feel anger, or pain. Disappointment, even, perhaps, in him. I saw him abased and abject. He knows what I saw. Yet it does not occur to him that I might no longer want him. That I might wish to leave. Marith looked awkwardly at her, then smiled bright and innocent, his eyes caressing her face. ‘She’s to dress you as a queen. I told you I’d adorn you as the most beautiful woman in Malth Tyrenae; you’ll have to settle for being the most beautiful woman on Third, which is far less of a compliment. She’s to bring everything she has.’
‘A new pair of shoes would be more useful,’ Thalia said brightly in reply. Don’t think of it. Don’t think of it. This is what he is, also. Beautiful and sad and full of pride in himself. A shining prince in a shining tower. That was a better thought.
‘Oh, I’m sure you can have every pair in Toreth. I’ll have some made in solid gold for you, or sewn from rose petals sent in a fast ship from Chathe.’ He smiled like a boy and she tried to smile back.
The seamstress came a short while later with gowns for her, and she forgot her discomfort and her anger in the glorious game of trying things on. A cloak of black velvet, edged and lined with fur, clasped with silver roses. A dress of deep golden-green silk, embroidered at the neck with flowers and leaves in bronze and brown. Another in apricot, embroidered all over with tiny gold stars. Grey velvet, soft as breathing, trimmed in silver and dark twilight blue. Satin green and blue and gold like a peacock’s tail, the pattern shifting as the dress moved. White silk, sewn with green and pink like blossom. Slippers and boots, in fine leather, with buckles of silver and gold. Thalia gazed at them all in astonishment. Marith looked at her with hopeful eyes.
‘A goldsmith will come later, too. Bring you jewels to match. Sapphires, like your eyes. Diamonds. Rubies, of course.’ He stroked her face, light in his eyes. ‘The dresses will have to be altered. You’re far too tall and slender for most of the women here. But that can be done quickly.’ He shot a hard glance at the seamstress. ‘Very quickly.’
‘You don’t have any money,’ Thalia said at last. Money was something else she was slowly becoming aware of, realizing the advantages of its possession, the consequences of its lack. All her power and her status, and she had been stripped to nothing, within a few moments of walking out from her Temple with nothing of her own. ‘How are you paying for all this?’
‘I don’t have any money now. But one day I’ll have everything. And I want you to look like I already do.’ He sighed and rubbed his face, laughed shortly. So unhappy again. Ashamed. She shouldn’t have said it, Thalia thought. Should have let him pretend all was as it had been when he last stood in this room dressed in these clothes. ‘I can borrow money. I’ve got drinking debts I can’t possibly ever meet now anyway, beautiful girl. A few dresses and some diamonds are neither here nor there.’
Thalia ran her hand over the grey velvet dress. Soft as skin, smooth to the touch.
‘Try it on,’ Marith said eagerly. ‘No, try the gold one first.’
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’
He laughed, more happily this time. ‘Of course.’
She put on the dress, a maidservant helping her. The bodice was low and tight-fitted, the skirt slim, swirling around her legs. It was heavy and strange on her, after the loose light dresses she was used to. Like the dresses for the great ceremonies of the Temple. Like the liveries of the servants scurrying around the keep with their heads bowed.
Marith gazed at her with a song in his eyes and she forgot that, too. His fingers closed on her hair and pulled at her gown and sent the seamstress running, shining fabric piled in her arms.
‘I’ll see Lord Relast, now, I suppose.’
Aris Relast looked entirely nonplussed: ‘His Lordship … uh … is indeed eager to meet with you, My Lord Prince.’
‘Kept him waiting, have we?’ Marith stretched and yawned. Aris Relast stood in the doorway, his face sour. Marith smiled at him sweetly. ‘I suppose I’d better let him attend, then.’ He stood up, feeling the room lurch around him. Several hours of drinking and fucking possibly not the best preparation for what he was about to have to do. He’d been aware of knocking at the door earlier, Lord Relast presumably wanting it confirmed to his own face that his son’s murderer really was still alive. It might have been politic to seem at least vaguely grateful for his hospitality, rather than ignore it entirely and open another bottle of wine.
Two things, Deneth Relast could want of him. He had genuinely no idea which it would be.
In either case, he’d have one perfect afternoon to hold to himself first.
Marith pulled on his coat, the rich dark Altrersyr red, slightly obvious perhaps. Thalia wore the grey dress. It made his coat look brighter and more vibrant beside her. His queen. He’d have a red dress made for her, too. Blood and firewine and her mouth.
Back down the long corridors, the wide staircases. Memory choked him for a moment. So many times, he’d walked here with Carin. His hands felt suddenly sticky, still covered in Carin’s blood. The way skin felt after touching something unclean. Knowing it was there, not visible to the naked eye but throbbing so that he could almost hear it. He rubbed his hand on Thalia’s dress, trying to think himself back to the glorious afternoon. She mistook his gesture, smiled and stroked his hand back, her face still bright with pleasure. She seemed easier in herself also, things mended between them, the haunted look
fading from her eyes. Far easier to apologize appropriately, half-drunk and in ecstasy.
I love you, he thought. I love you. I’m sorry. You know I am.
Dusk was already pressing at the windows. He’d forgotten, somehow, after months spent in the changeless seasonless dream of the Sekemleth Empire, that night came in earlier here. All day, Deneth Relast must have been waiting, to receive his son’s murderer. He looked at Thalia a moment, looking at the dusk, whispering words. Should it be a killing night for her? She must count the days still, mark it in her mind. The moon would be different in Sorlost. A man? A woman? A child?
A pulse beat in his ears. Disgust and desire. Desire and disgust.
They stopped outside the heavy door of Lord Relast’s private chambers. Aris knocked. The door opened. They went in. Deneth Relast rose from his desk as they entered. A handsome enough man, in his youth, grey-haired and grey-bearded now, his stocky body going a little to fat. Sad for Landra and Carin both, that they’d inherited their father’s body and their mother’s face.
‘My Lord Prince.’
Marith inclined his head very slightly. ‘Lord Relast.’
‘You will sit?’ Deneth Relast indicated chairs, poured cups of heavy-scented wine. Seabirds screamed outside the window: the fishing ships must be coming in, in Toreth Harbour. In the corner of the room, a little figurine of Amrath squatted on a shelf, a candle burning next to it. The motion of the door closing made the flame dance and the figurine itself seemed to move.
Curious thing, to worship one’s own kin. Marith nodded at it.
‘Landra said that you were alive,’ Deneth Relast began crisply, without formality. ‘I did not believe her, at first—’
And Landra had accused him of lying! ‘Of course you knew I was alive. You wouldn’t believe a word my father told you, without proof.’ He felt utterly confident and powerful, suddenly, sitting here talking with this man whose son he had loved and killed. Twist the knife. Harder. In my heart, and yours. ‘My father didn’t care about Carin. Not enough to stain himself so far as to actually kill me. Neither did you, in the end. Punished him for it, but not that far. You were angry at the time, but now … You and he have both probably been getting word of me since I left the Whites.’
Deneth lowered his eyes. ‘Indeed. My wife and children needed to believe it, though. Landra in particular is naïve. Almost as naïve as my son was.’
Don’t speak about him! Don’t mention his name! Nobody can mention his name but me. The little Amrath figurine moved as the candle flickered. Thalia tensed, sensing it. Deneth shifted in his seat, but ploughed on.
‘Tiothlyn is heir now, of course,’ he said slowly. ‘Seems … capable, if unimaginative and inclined to the coarse.’
‘Don’t speak about Ti.’
‘Tiothlyn is the only reason you are still alive,’ Deneth said sharply. ‘Rather than nameless and faceless and dead on a spike, as you should be.’
Guessed right, then. ‘Shouldn’t have demanded my head yourself, then, should you?’
A silence, the candlelight flickering. The ghost of a boy with fair hair. Marith could almost feel him, hands cool on his forehead, warm on his shoulder. Side by side, their heads touching, fingers entwined.
Deneth glanced at Thalia. ‘And what would you have done in my place, My Lord Prince? Forgiven? Laughed it away?’
‘You put him up to it! You made him do it! He hurt me first! It wasn’t My fault!’ So weak and petulant, his voice sounded. Marith drained his cup, his hands shaking. ‘What did you think would happen? Father’s wanted Ti to take my place for years. Must have thanked you for finally getting rid of me for him. You walked into that one, didn’t you? All your plans for me fall through and Carin’s dead and you’re so angry, and then the anger wears off and you realize Ti and the queen and her family are all smiling and you’ve lost everything and made it worse. Gods, they must have laughed at you.’
Deneth blinked. His face was white. ‘Your father—’ Shrugged. ‘This is not a good time, I think, My Lord Prince. Let us go and eat. We can talk again afterwards, when we are refreshed.’
Dinner was served in a small dining room instead of the Great Hall. Not a formal banquet, just Deneth and his wife Jora and Landra and little Savane, and Aris at the far end. Marith was seated at Deneth’s right hand, the place of honour. Almost like old times. Landra sat across from him, her face hard as stone. She looked so much like Carin. He could see all their eyes watching him. Shocked and hating. Pressure on his back, scrabbling at his skull. Gods only knew what they saw, when they looked at him. Make it stop, he thought. Make it go away. Make everything go away. I’d tell you I was sorry, but you wouldn’t believe me anyway.
Servants served little pies of pickled fish, crusted with honey and salt. Sharp and sweet and elegant, half disgusting, half perfect. Apples, still fresh from the orchards, the last of the year, their skin mottled with stars. If you cut one the right way you made a star pattern. Venison, burnt black without, bloody raw within. Thalia ate with a look of astonishment on her face. Loathed the food. Loathed the place. Probably loathed him, after what he’d done to her. But I love you, Thalia, he thought. Please love me. Hippocras to drink, green and heavy, stinging his tongue. Kind of Deneth, to remember his liking for it. He drank it and it was bright and sweet. His head was getting heavy. I’m so tired, he thought. Help me, Carin. Help me. Make everything go away. Landra was glaring at him. She hates me. She’s always hated me. He raised his glass to her, green liquid slopping over his shaking hand. ‘Old times, Landra. Don’t tell me you haven’t missed the sight of me vomiting onto my plate.’ His voice sounded distant. Hippocras, green and heavy, stinging his tongue.
At the end of the meal, Deneth rose and gestured to him to follow. Thalia stared at him helpless as he staggered to his feet, collapsed, tried again and finally stumbled out.
Woke the next morning with a groan, his head pounding. Seemed at least to have made it back to his own bed. Thalia stood at the window, looking out towards the sea. She turned as she heard him stir. Marith looked down at himself, still dressed in rumpled finery, and smiled ruefully at her.
‘I really should mend my ways and stop waking up in bed with something like you fully dressed and horribly hung-over. You’re too forgiving, lovely thing. You could have at least helped me take my boots off, though. So, I take it I signed my kingdom away last night. What did I offer him, the blood of my first-born and all five fingers of my right hand?’ He saw her horrified expression and laughed. ‘I’m joking, lovely girl.’ Considered a moment. ‘Half joking anyway. I admit, I was possibly in a weaker negotiating position than was entirely wise. But it’s no more than I was expecting. Less, perhaps. I don’t think he actually wants me to kneel in the mud and publicly beg his forgiveness. It’s nothing I wouldn’t have gone into sober: the fact he felt the need to indulge me was simply an added good. It all went off rather well, in fact, given I’m not entirely sure I was capable of intelligible speech by the end of it.’
Thalia turned back to the window, staring out at the sky and the sea. She looked so fragile, so lost here. So afraid. There’s nothing to be afraid of, he thought. Can’t you see? Everything will be fine now. It’s done and can’t be avoided and I’m almost glad of it.
She said, ‘You can’t mean to trust him. You can’t.’
‘Trust him? Of course I don’t trust him. He doesn’t exactly trust me, either. But I need his support, and he wants what he’s always wanted. Thinks I’ll give it to him. And so we are allies.’
‘Allies?’ She looked puzzled. Ah, gods, she was so innocent still.
‘King, Thalia my beloved.’ He came over to the window beside her and kissed her. She smelled of honey and milk and fresh flowers, and he felt her wince at the reek of sour alcohol on his breath. You smell like a distillery. ‘He’ll make me king.’ So glorious, saying it to her.
It’s done, he thought, saying it. It’s done. Everything that’s happened … it’s done.
‘Kin
g?’
‘I knew he would.’ He laughed giddily, kissing her face. ‘Whatever I … I’ve done to him’ – a stumble in his speech, pain shooting through him, then he shook himself – ‘whatever I’ve done, he knows I’m the only way he can get what he wants. He was furious when … when Carin … when it happened, but this is what he’s been working towards all these years, after all. Power. Strength. His hand pulling my strings. His family ascendant, his enemies crushed in the dust. And so he’ll help me. Should have just asked directly, years ago, and spared us both some pain.’
‘King?’ she said again.
Marith went over to a table and poured himself a drink from the flagon waiting there. A toast to himself. Happiness welling up within him: All hail Marith Altrersyr, Ansikanderakesis Amrakane! ‘King. I’ll have my father butchered. Or keep him alive, locked up, in pain. And Tiothlyn … He’ll suffer, for taking my place. And that bitch his mother, and her kin …’ He gulped down the cup in one go, laughing. So much easier it all felt, now it was settled and done. Why had he kept running from it? Everything would be fine now. Fine and good. ‘I’ll wrap you in all the jewels in my father’s treasury, place the crown of Eltheia on your head. I’ll make every man, woman and child on the Whites grovel at your feet. And I’ll kill every person who was there when my father abandoned me. Hang their heads on Malth Elelane’s walls.’
‘King …’ Her eyes were very wide. ‘King …’
He smiled and kissed her face again. I love you. I do. And you love me. And everything will be fine now. It’s all so good! Looked where she had been looking, out over the green and gold walls down to the knife-grey sea. White horses racing, spray breaking on the dark rocks of Caltrean Head. Saleiot: to shine, to sparkle, to dance like the sunlight on fast-flowing water.
He went to pour himself another drink and then hesitated, frowning at himself. Half ashamed. No more. Not now. Not today. Today they would go out to the wild country, and he’d show her indeed the beauty of the White Isles, beauty and living and sunlight on hard frost. She should share them. The world’s such a beautiful place! he thought. He bathed and dressed hurriedly, forced himself to eat a little, ordered a horse fetched. The day cold and clear, washing the pain in his head away, riding fast into the wind while the gulls wheeled and shrieked above them.
The Court of Broken Knives Page 39
