Osen’s face flickered, looking across the beach where the men worked at the pyres, feeding the flames with pitch-soaked wood. The bones of the ships, consuming themselves. “We can’t sail, in this wind, and Tiothlyn can’t sail either, and that’s the only luck we have. But he’ll come. And we’ll all be dead.”
“We defeated”—she did not quite know how to say it, “his father,” “his brother,” what do I know, she thought again, what do I know of fathers and brothers, these foreign words, even in my own tongue I have never spoken them, meaningless words, and yet to say them, it hurts me, to say what it is he did—“we defeated King Illyn. We can defeat Tiothlyn.”
“Whatever happened at Malth Salene …” Osen shook his head. “I wasn’t there, of course. So perhaps you could ask him to do whatever he did again? I’m surprised Ti hasn’t come already, in all honesty. King Illyn would have marched the men overnight immediately we turned tail on him, followed the ships along the coast. We’re less than a day’s march from Morr Town.” He gestured at the smoke from the pyres. “It’s not exactly like he can’t know where we are.”
“So we will destroy him.” Thalia thought: I saw what Marith did, at Malth Salene. I saw every man who opposed him die. I know what he is. What is in him. I will not die here. I will not.
“Destroy Tiothlyn? He’ll cut the men’s throats like dogs, Thalia. Those that haven’t already fled. But no—that will be why he’s waiting. Why kill us himself when our men can do it for him?”
The men were slumped in ragged shelters frozen in the wind, breathing in the smoke of dead flesh. But they would fight. She knew, looking at their faces, she who had seen Malth Salene fall. They would fight for him. Or she would make them fight, if she must. But perhaps they would die, even so. More broken bones on the shoreline, buried in the sand like the wreck of the ships. She looked across at the litter of shelters, like plague sores on the grass beyond the sedge. No one, she thought then, no one thinks that they will die. I do not suppose that his father thought that he would die. His father, his brother—they must have thought, also, that they would win. Remembered the eyes of the sacrifices bound to her altar, staring up at her, she stood before them with the knife in her hands, the High Priestess of Great Tanis, and still, in their eyes, the certainty there somehow that they would not die, that her knife would not truly kill them, even as she killed them.
But I will not die here, she thought. I will not.
“Why are you still here, then, Lord Fiolt?” Thalia asked. “Why have you not already fled? Or killed him?” Some little of the dignity game in the Temple, drawing her old status as the God’s hand and the God’s knife. If this is ended, if I am broken and dying here, I can at least have that.
“Because …” He rubbed his eyes. “I could ask that same question of you, High Priestess Thalia.”
You could. They looked at one another. Each pitying the other, perhaps, Thalia thought. For being caught in this. Not able to leave. Drawn to what was offered. Kingship! Victory! Glory! The promise in Marith’s face.
Osen looked away from her. Looked again at the bodies burning in sparks of salt and pitch. Breathed in deep, and Thalia could see his nostrils flare, breathing in the smell of the smoke. Put his hand on the hilt of his sword. Caressing it.
“Anyway. Here we are. The raiding party has come back,” said Osen again. “There’s food, at least, now. That’s all I came to tell you. I’ll have something brought to you. And to him. Our Lord King. I’ll have watches set tonight. Hopefully we won’t be slaughtered in our sleep, at least.” He rubbed his face again. “Bread and beer and dried fish. Some of the men might even stay here to die with us, if we feed them.”
“Thank you, Lord Fiolt.”
I will not die, she thought. I spared Marith’s life, only a little time ago.
The promise in Marith’s face …
She went back to the shelter they had built for him as king. Sail cloth, ship’s timbers, branches. The sand was soft under her feet, then the crunch of pebbles, up over the dunes, down though the sedge to the coarse bare flat grass. Men’s faces followed her as she walked. The man Tal sat before the ragged flap of the tent doorway, wrapped in his cloak, his sword on his knees. He bowed his head as Thalia entered.
“Marith?”
He was sitting staring at the wall, where the canvas was ripped to let in a beam of half-light.
“Thalia?”
“The men took some food in the village. Osen Fiolt is having something prepared for us.”
No answer. She sat down next to him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I thought … I thought … They should have welcomed me. They were there. My brother. My mother—my stepmother. They should have … they should … I’m sorry. Ah, gods.” Spat out a laugh. “I told you I was afraid for you to come. But I really thought … She’s my mother. How could she not welcome me back?”
Memories: his face in the desert, his eyes soft and sad and filled with light like stars; his face in the golden morning, bright and living and filled with joy and love and pride. And she remembered also Ausa, the priestess in the Temple, her friend, whom she had punished and maimed and ruined, and who had asked after her in friendship when it was done.
Perhaps, she thought. Perhaps they would have welcomed him back, even despite everything, if he had been able to see them. Perhaps they still would.
Marith said, “Hilanis the Young skinned his brother alive, you know? His wife wore a gown made of the skin on the day he was crowned. My great-great-grandfather. Skinned his older brother alive. I found an old leather robe once, tucked away in a cupboard, I thought for years it was Tareneth’s skin. There was a mark on it I even thought was a bloodstain. Until Ti pointed out he would have had to be five feet wide and four feet high.”
Or not.
Pain like knives stabbing. The filth of these people. The filth of this world.
Marith closed his eyes. “Let Ti have it. Have all of this. I’ll go down to the beach and die there. You should go back to Sorlost. To your God. Be free.”
Pain like knives stabbing.
The walls of the Temple closing around them. Blotting out the light. I ran from that, she thought. I will not go back.
“You should be sorry,” she said.
The doorcloth of the shelter jerked open. Osen stood there, the man Tal behind him, frightened and elated both at once.
“Marith—My Lord King—Ships. There are ships in the bay.”
Marith’s eyes blinked slowly open. “Ships … how … how many?”
“Ten. War ships. Large. But they’re not Ti’s ships. Not from the Whites.”
“Not Ti’s … Whose, then?”
“I … I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell, in this gloom. And they’re coming … They’re sailing against the wind. Not oared. Sailing.”
Marith got up, rubbed at his face. “Against the wind?” He frowned. “Get the men drawn up.”
He raked his fingers through his hair, did not wait to put on his armour but belted on his sword, fastened his bloodsoaked cloak at his neck. Thalia followed him out, Osen and Tal following behind. The camp around them was an ants’ nest, men scrabbling to arms, meals abandoned, dice and drink scattered beneath their feet, voices shouting for order and discipline. The chaos trying to pull into something like the army of a king as they passed. On the beach the sedge whispered and shivered. A group of men stood watching the sea. Lights on the water, the ships coming in. Black shapes like clots of shadows. Silent. No oars indeed, sailing with sails swelling the wrong way to the wind.
A shout from the first ship, the splash of an anchor. A rowing boat came across, the oars making flashes as the water caught the light. It met the breakers on the tideline: men leapt out, ran it forward up the sand, beaching it clear of the waves. A man got out carefully, flanked by servants. Came across the sand to Marith, and Marith came across the sand to him.
The man smiled, his face livid in the t
orches. “King Marith.”
Marith tried to smile back. “Uncle Selerie. Welcome.”
Chapter Twelve
Once upon a time, a long, long time ago now, there was a young king who needed a wife. And the wife he chose was called Marissa, and she was the sister of Selerie Calboride the King of Ith. She had yellow hair and grey eyes and she was sweet natured and gentle, kind and fair and wise and good. The young king, King Illyn, his name was, he sailed over the wine dark sea to her, and he married her in great splendour in her brother’s fortress, and he brought her back with him to his own kingdom, and crowned her queen with a circlet of diamonds and silver on her beautiful head.
So, nine months after the wedding, Queen Marissa gave birth to a baby boy. The boy was beautiful, a shining child, strong and healthy, with bright clever eyes. The whole kingdom rejoiced, that their king had an heir, and such a beautiful baby at that. The queen was filled with joy, she loved her son, doted on him, cherished him. Oh, such a loving mother! Oh, such a happy child she had!
But the king her husband was a bad man. Or, better, perhaps, say that he was a cruel man, for he did not love his wife Queen Marissa, for all that she was so fair and so gentle and so wise and so good. He was a bitter man, and a harsh one, and before he ever married Marissa he had had a mistress, Elayne of the Golden Hair, who was as hard and harsh and selfish as he himself. And Elayne was filled with jealousy against Queen Marissa, who was queen and mother and so bright with happiness.
And Elayne and King Illyn between them killed poor Marissa. They poisoned her. And King Illyn married Elayne and made her queen.
But no matter how she tried, Elayne could never manage to harm Marissa’s son, the prince, the heir to the kingdom, left motherless when still a baby before he could even speak his mother’s name. Though Elayne longed for his death with all her heart, to make her own son king. Though King Illyn longed also for this.
Marissa’s brother Selerie had loved his sister. He had rejoiced when she bore her child. Thus when the boy was grown into a fine youth, strong and clever and healthy and beautiful to look upon, King Selerie invited him to visit him in Ith. And this is the story which he told him.
Chapter Thirteen
Selerie Calboride’s war tent was blue and silver leather, the colours of Ith, gold leaf round the doorway, a standard capping it in the shape of a golden stag with antlers shifting into eagles’ heads. Fur rugs on the floor, two light folding chairs, a table in silver gilt, a brazier beneath the smoke hole, the dividing curtain to the sleeping place beyond drawn back to show a bed made up. Even a woman, dressed in shimmering green velvet, her hair braided with gold, holding a tray with a jug of mulled wine on it, steam rising to fog the light of her eyes.
“Nephew.” Selerie rose from his chair. “Would you care to sit?”
“Uncle.” The beautiful backdrop, the king in his jewelled robe, the girl. Utter humiliation. But a flush of pride crept into Marith also, that his uncle felt him worth enough to want to humiliate. He sat down and stretched out his hands to the fire.
A strange man, Selerie Calboride, King of Ith. Some people said he was mad. Though they said most Calborides were mad. Tall, reddish fair, with pale grey wide bulbous eyes. It was the eyes that made the madness convincing. Nothing like Marith’s father’s eyes, and he did not remember his mother to whom he had been told there was a close resemblance. But Marith felt self-consciously as though it was his father who looked at him.
The girl stepped forward to offer him a drink. Marith took it. Felt his hands shake. Very good wine, naturally. The warmth spread pleasantly through his fingers. The cup was almost empty suddenly. His hands were shaking and he almost dropped it. Tried to keep himself from staring at the girl with the jug.
Selerie raised his own cup. “As one king to another, then, Marith of the White Isles.”
“One king to another, Uncle.” Tried to look at his uncle speaking to him. “You’ve come, I’m sure, to congratulate me on my success. Such a triumph! But of course you always knew what I had in me to do.”
Selerie shifted in his chair. I hate you, Marith thought. I hate you. I am a man, a king. “I came to offer you my aid,” Selerie said slowly. “Hail you as a fellow king. Promise alliance. The old sacred bonds between Calboride and the Altrersyr, back even to Amrath and Eltheri, that your father spurned. Help you kill the whore’s son who claims to be heir in your stead. I came to confirm with my own eyes that my only sister’s only child was still alive. My sister would weep with shame, were she to see you now.”
So it’s lucky then my father killed her. You think I don’t weep with shame myself? Marith said, “It was your decision to come, uncle. I was perfectly happy sitting in my tent in the filth. My soldiers had just found something alcoholic for me to drink, I’m told.”
Selerie said crisply, “Happy, were you? Perhaps I’ll leave you be, then.” They looked away from each other, both caught. Can’t leave. Can’t tell you to leave. Can’t ask you to stay. Can’t ask you to ask me.
“Your brother the whore’s son has claimed the throne,” Selerie said at last. “That is why I have come. There are some things I will not permit. The whore’s son wearing the crown of Altrersys is one of them.”
I …
“My brother the whore’s son is claiming the throne,” Marith said dully back.
“And you seem to have done a most wonderful job of opposing him.”
Marith looked away at the walls. Shadows. Hate. Pain. Leave me alone, he thought. Just leave me alone.
Selerie said, “Don’t fret, dear Nephew. War’s a difficult game at which you’ve had very little practice. I’m sure even Amrath himself made mistakes occasionally. You’ll learn.”
“I’m sure I will.” His cup was empty again. Held it out to the girl for more. Her eyes flicked to Selerie. Selerie’s eyes flicked back. She stepped backwards away from them, leaving Marith’s cup hanging.
“It’s a very fine rug you’re sitting on,” Selerie said kindly. “I wouldn’t want it spoilt by you vomiting on it.”
Felt like being back being raged at by his father for turning up falling-down-dead drunk at some important event. Felt like being laughed at by Skie for killing a dragon and it somehow being embarrassing that he had. “I’m the king, Uncle. Not Ti. A greater king than you are, indeed. King of the White Isles and Illyr and Immier and the Wastes and the Bitter Sea. Ansikanderakesis Amrakane. You’re only king at all because my ancestor spared yours. I should make you kneel at my feet.”
Selerie said nothing. Looked around him with his bulbous mad eyes. The gilded leather. The fine furnishings. The furs and the wine and the jewels and the girl. Marith twirled the empty cup in his fingers. Gold. Don’t pretend you didn’t want this, Uncle. You sit in your tower drinking quicksilver and seeing the same things I do. Days, it takes, to get from Ith to the White Isles, even with magic in your sails: you sailed well before my failure at Malth Elelane, to join me, secure me as king. You must have been readying your troops since first you heard I was still alive. Look at this tent, these fittings, the men with bright bronze spears outside the door. Why else did you come, if not for this?
Selerie looked away at the walls, seeing something there in the leather in the corner where the light from the brazier hardly reached. “And what would you do, King Marith of the White Isles and Illyr and Immier and the Wastes and the Bitter Sea, Ansikanderakesis Amrakane, parricide and dragonlord and dragon killer and despoiler of the holiest woman in Irlast, if I knelt at your feet?”
Tell you my father was right to kill my mother. Tell you it’s lucky indeed neither of them are alive to see what I’ve become. Tell you to kill me and bury me beside Carin in one grave. You might even do it, I think, perhaps, Uncle, you who once gave me an old sword with a ruby in its hilt like a clot of blood.
Marith said, “You know what I’d do.”
Selerie gestured to the girl to refill Marith’s cup. “Do I? Do you?”
“I’d ask you to give me your ships,
and your men, and your allegiance.”
“And why would you do that, then, Nephew?”
Marith looked at him. “You know why.”
Selerie smiled back. “I remember you when you were a child, Nephew. You seemed so very bright. Full of laughter. Yet one might have guessed, even then, that this would be where you’d come to in the end. King Ruin, I hear they have named you. King of Death. Very well then. I’ll give you my ships. And my men. And my allegiance.” Sipped his wine. “But I do not think that you will thank me for doing so.”
Marith thought: no. I do not think perhaps that I will. I told you, I was perfectly happy sitting in my tent.
Selerie rose to his feet, placed his cup back on the tray the woman held. “I have another ten ships riding at anchor around the next cape. Twenty ships in all. Two thousand men. We’ll meet again this evening, then, to discuss. You’ll bring your woman to dinner afterwards, perhaps? I would be most interested to meet her, this holy and incomparable creature who gave up god and empire for you. For this.”
Hateful old man. Selerie’s eyes like his father’s eyes again. Yes, I failed. Yes. I know. But next time … Marith tried to think of other things. Thalia. Dinner. Plans. There’d be better fare for her here than whatever his soldiers had managed to hunt up in the marsh and the village huts. A few hours’ warmth in a dry tent. A pretty dress and some jewels and a chance for her to be treated as she deserved. Oh, she’d looked so perfect, seated beside him in the high seats of honour at Malth Calien, radiant by firelight with the men all eying her with jealous desire in their hearts.
Selerie said, “I have a man with me whom you may I think be interested to meet, given your current circumstances.”
“A hatha merchant, is he?”
Selerie’s face went dark with anger. “A weather hand.”
“A weather hand?” Marith started. Never met one. Half convinced they didn’t exist. Just lucky men. And not loved, on the Whites. Storm-bringers, death-dealers, things you scared fisher children with. But he’d seen the ships last night, sails swelling against the wind. “Really? That might be … handy.”
The Tower of Living and Dying Page 8
