“You told us she was dead,” said Cammor Tardein, the Lord of the Dry Sea, Dweller in the House of Breaking Waves.
“You showed us her body, made a speech over it,” said Aris Ventuel, the Lord of Empty Mirrors, Dweller in the House of Glass. “That we must ensure her death was not in vain.”
“You told us the invaders were from Immish,” said Samneon Magreth, the Lord of the Southern Sky, Dweller in the House of Mists. “And that they were all dead.”
Dead. Everyone, everyone looked at the empty chairs where March Verneth and Tam Rhyl should be sitting. Darath and Elis, sitting beside each other, away from Orhan, Elis sitting next to the chair in which his goodfather should be sat.
Dead. All dead.
Orhan opened his mouth to speak. Memories. Eyes staring at him. Eyes like knife blades. A voice shouting. A boy, soaked in blood to his eyeballs, blazing like a star.
Dead.
“Dead.” His voice was coming through thick dry dust. His mouth tasted of blood. “The invaders are all dead.”
“Lord Emmereth?” Cammor Tardein said.
“The High Priestess Thalia is dead and the invaders were from Immish,” said Orhan. “Whatever is happening on the White Isles is madness and lies.”
A boy. A beautiful shining screaming blood-soaked boy. Dead. Dead. Dead.
“The High Priestess Demerele drew the red lot,” said Darath. “The High Priestess Demerele, the High Priestess-that-is, drew the red lot. Barely days before the High Priestess Thalia’s untimely death. If Demerele was not chosen by Great Tanis, she would not have drawn the red lot.”
Orhan said, very slowly, his voice dry and cracked, “That, surely, must mean something, must it not?”
“The Altrersyr are liars and deceivers. Accursed demons,” said Darath. “But the Asekemlene Emperor cannot be deceived. The Emperor saw the High Priestess Thalia’s body. The God Himself, Great Tanis, the Lord of Living and Dying, ensured that we had a new High Priestess waiting, that we would not be abandoned after the High Priestess Thalia’s death. Who would dare to argue with the Asekemlene Emperor and the God?”
A rational man, Orhan Emmereth. Fifteen thalers, it had cost him, for Demerele to draw the red lot. Yes, he thought, yes, that’s it.
The Emperor stirred himself. Spoke. A weak, pale man, the Emperor, neither clever nor good looking, puffy in his face and belly, red broken veins on his nose. A fishmonger’s son in a desert city. A raven had landed at the child’s feet to caw out “Emperor,” and the High Priestess Caleste had sighed when she confirmed that the child was indeed the Asekemlene Emperor reborn to them, the Ever Living, the Eternal, the Husband of the City, the Blessed Golden Light of the Sun’s Dawn.
“I saw her body in a silver casket,” said the Emperor. “I presided over her burial. I saw the Immish assassins. I sent a letter to the Immish Great Council, protesting their attack on me. Was I deceived? Was what I said a lie?”
Silence.
The Emperor said, “The Emperor cannot be deceived.”
“If anyone repeats these lies,” said Darath, “they should be executed for blasphemy against the God and treason against the Emperor.”
The wrong words, there. Eyes flickered sideways. Back to March Verneth and Tam Rhyl’s empty chairs. Orhan felt himself flinch. A terrible fear that he would be sick.
“And then, perhaps, the city can recover itself from bloodshed,” said the Emperor.
“We all pray as much,” said Cammor Tardein. Looking at Orhan.
The Emperor rose to his feet. The High Lords of the Sekemleth Empire rose and knelt before him. The doors of the council room swung closed with a crash of new forged bronze.
Orhan got slowly to his feet. Try not to look at the other lords’ faces.
A boy with eyes like knife blades. Beautiful. Shining. But they were all dead. They were from Immish, a hired troop, rough mercenaries from Immish, they were all dead. And the memory, Great Tanis, the memory of the woman’s body, stabbed and broken, and his sword coming down on her, cutting up her face into an unrecognizable pulp of blood. Not even the worst thing he’d ever done.
“The High Priestess Thalia is dead and the invaders were from Immish and they are all dead.”
“Orhan.” Darath caught his arm. “I need a word with you.” Darath had dark, terrible hateful eyes. He knows I was unfaithful to him, thought Orhan. They hadn’t spoken since the day of March’s poisoning. Would have pleaded illness himself, despite everything, to avoid seeing Darath here; his heart had leapt, despite everything, at the thought of seeing Darath here. An excuse to talk to him. This new catastrophe that has struck us: perhaps a bridge between us, to smooth what we have done. We are beset by further chaos: and you were right to kill March, Darath, I see that now. For what would March have made of this new way to attack us?
“A word,” Darath said. “Now.”
They travelled all the way to the House of the East in silence. Darath trying not to meet Orhan’s eyes or touch his hand.
“You betrayed me,” Darath said when they were alone in Orhan’s bedroom. His voice was bitingly cold.
“I—I can’t explain it. I don’t know what to say. What came over me.” Just tell him you’re sorry. Tell him—
Darath struck him in the face, a ring scratching and drawing blood.
“You manipulative, vile, evil, lying bastard! You used me! All those lovely speeches about saving the city, about making us great again, about the poor and starving, about needing to protect us from an Immish threat. And you sold us to the thrice-damned fucking Altrersyr! I paid for it! I fought for it! The Altrersyr! What in God’s name did they offer you? How much can possibly have been enough for that?”
Shock. Astonishment. Horror. For a moment Orhan didn’t even understand.
“I told Elis I believed in you! That him marrying Leada was a part of remaking the Empire! My brother! I made my brother poison his own goodfather in his own house!”
“Elis? You made Elis do it?”
Darath’s face went almost purple. “Yes, I made Elis do it! I made Elis kill his wife’s father! For you! How else did you think I managed it?”
“I … I don’t know. I tried not to think. I … I’m sorry. I—”
Darath hit him again, on the face, stinging his eyes. “Sorry! You sold us to the fucking Altrersyr! What the fuck did they offer you? How can anything have been enough for that? You know what they did to Tam’s daughter. You know what they fucking are. A thousand thousand years our enemies! Death and ruin! And you sold us to them!” Spittle clustered on Darath’s lips. Weeping. Never seen him so angry. “Monsters! You sold us to them, Orhan!”
“No! Darath, no, please.”
“You sold me! You made me help you! I gave them money!”
“No …”
Darath’s face like a dog’s bared teeth. “You bastard. You lying, poisonous, hateful bastard.”
“I don’t understand. Any of it.” Orhan himself like a man without sword or armour, crouching trying to ward off the death blow with his outstretched hand.
“What the fuck is there to understand, Orhan? You arranged for the new King of the White Isles to burn the palace, despoil the Temple, carry off the High Priestess. So he can brag about it to his drinking friends! Why, in God’s name? Why? Why? Did he promise you something? Land? Titles? Gold? His love? Are you running away to the Whites to be something at his court? How long were you planning this?” A horrible light came into Darath’s eyes. “Is this why you took me back to bed? To win me over? Help you make your pretty boyfriend king?”
“But they … they were a hired troop from Immish. I didn’t know they had any connection to the Whites. How could I know? Why would I do that? Why would … why would this man, this king, why would he have done that, even? And they’re dead. They’re all dead. I saw them. The High Priestess Thalia is dead and the invaders were from Immish and they are all dead.”
Dead. Dead.
It sounded so pitiful. His voice whispered like leav
es. Eyes like knife blades staring at him. A voice shouting, “I’ll kill you, then.” A boy, soaked in blood to his eyeballs, falling backwards in a crash of brilliant glass. We were too frightened to search for him, Orhan thought. No one would have gone to search for him. Not out there into the dark. His eyes, seeing you, out there in the dark … The boy raising his sword and Tam shaking, screaming, losing control of his bowels. Tam rasping out “Alive” as he died.
“What have we done? What have you done? He’ll kill us, Orhan!”
We paid for the men who attacked the palace to die. We killed them. We killed them all. I remember. I thought I did. Killed them. Dead.
Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
“They are everything they say they are. And worse,” Tam Rhyl had said, when he came back from the White Isles. Sailing away thinking Tiothlyn Altrersyr would marry his daughter. Sailing back with his daughter’s womb rotting out of her body, his daughter crippled with pain. “He did it by his own hand,” Tam Rhyl had screamed. “He sent her a letter. Telling her. If Great Tanis were merciful he would wipe Malth Elelane from the face of the earth.”
“I didn’t know! God’s knives, I swear, I didn’t know.”
“Liar! Fucking lies! Lies, Orhan!”
“I swear it! I didn’t know! I swear by Great Tanis—”
“Liar!”
“No … Please, Darath. Please.”
“I’ll kill you! I swear it! I’ll see you and everything that’s yours die in agony! I swear!”
And that, that is the most terrible thing he has ever heard and ever will hear.
They stopped, the words hanging visible in the air between them, bright as sunbeams, too terrible to be unsaid. Both breathing hard, weeping, grief running out of them from their souls, fear in their eyes.
Orhan got down slowly onto his knees at Darath’s feet. “I swear to you on my life and my love and the day of my death that I didn’t know.”
Darath stared down at him for what seemed like lifetimes. Rigid. Bent as stone.
“Truly?”
“Truly. On my life and my death and my love for you. I didn’t know.”
Darath sighed, a ragged, shuddering sound that ran through his body and Orhan’s. “‘On your love for me’? You fuck some filthy whore in the streets and you swear on your love for me?”
“Yes. Yes. I fucked some filthy whore in the streets and I swear on my love for you.”
A long silence. Then Darath laughed like a man dying of disease. “And you’re sorry for that, too, I suppose?” And he was laughing and weeping and hitting at Orhan’s chest. “And I suppose he’ll turn out to be the Last True King of Tarboran, will he, your whore?” And Orhan was clutching at him so tight it hurt, almost fighting him, sobbing out “I’m sorry,” while the tears ran down his cheeks.
And then a servant came running, terrified to interrupt them, to tell them that Bil’s labour had begun.
Chapter Eighteen
Hours, it must be, Orhan sitting and listening to the screams. March Verneth dying. Bil’s baby being born. Felt like the screams were March’s, as well as Bil’s. Maybe his own heart.
Darath left. Hurriedly. Couldn’t blame him. Orhan would have left himself, if he could. Janush the doctor rushed around looking anxious. The servant girl Nilesh, banished from Bil’s bedroom, slunk wide-eyed outside the door. Mannelin Aviced, Bil’s father, was summoned, slunk wide-eyed around Orhan’s library. Doting future grandfather. Chewing his knuckles raw.
You told us the High Priestess Thalia was dead, and you told us the invaders were from Immish, and now my daughter is screaming giving birth to your heir. Orhan fled from Mannelin back to his own bedroom.
Janush the doctor ordered they burn lemon peel and mint leaves. Fill Bil’s room with candles. Light candles in the gardens and before the house’s gates. Bright clear light to welcome the new life.
Let her live, thought Orhan. Dear Lord, Great Tanis who rules all things, from the fear of life and the fear of death, release us. Let her live.
Bil screamed.
Orhan sent servants out to buy more lemons. Sent a message to Celyse, confirming what she would already know.
Let it live, thought Orhan. Dear Lord, Great Tanis who rules all things, from the fear of life and the fear of death, release us. Let it live.
I wonder what Sterne would be feeling? he thought. Would he be happy? Rejoice at the birth of his child? I wonder if she told him, before he died.
Bil stopped screaming. A long, terrible empty waiting silence. A strange high-pitched wail. Like nothing Orhan had ever heard. Painful. Heart rending. But also something filled with hope.
The baby. Screaming. Raging and rejoicing at being born.
We are grateful. God’s knives. For these things, we are grateful.
Janush the doctor entered, threw himself at Orhan’s feet. “A boy! Great Tanis be praised! A boy! The heir to the House of the East! The next Lord of the Rising Sun!”
Celyse will be disappointed, Orhan thought dryly. Her son is now no longer my heir. He smiled at Janush, who must know that the baby was heir to a dead guardsman called Sterne. “A boy! Great Tanis be praised indeed.”
“Will you see it, My Lord?” Janush gestured towards the doorway. A servant girl entered, carrying a bundle of shining white cloth. She knelt awkwardly before Orhan, holding out the bundle. From the silk, a tiny thing thrashed its hands. It reminded Orhan of the unhatched dove chicks he’d been gorging on at the wedding feast. Disgusting. Raw looking. He reached out and touched it. Fingers closed around his fingers. The strangest thing he’d ever seen.
“Great Tanis be praised.” It smelled odd, like blood and bread and fruit mould. Crusted and streaked with blood. “The heir to the House of the East. The next Lord of the Rising Sun,” he said loudly. If any of them survived. Dead. Dead.
The baby whimpered. Orhan raised it to his face. My heir. Its tiny hands brushed at his face. Wrinkled like old, old man hands, webbed skeletal hands. It did not look like a human being, but its hands looked like human hands. Tiny nails. Its hands caught his face. Scratched him. He kissed its forehead. Up so close the smell was sweeter. A good strange smell. Its skin was waxy. Bil’s body fluids. Bil’s blood. So astonishing.
“And Bilale?”
“Lady Emmereth is well, My Lord,” said Janush.
Good. Such deep relief: I do care for her, he thought, you see, I am not a monster. “Good.”
He kissed the boy again. This strange raw looking tiny thing.
My son, he thought slowly then. My son.
The girl took the baby out back to its mother. Orhan almost winced watching her rise awkwardly to her feet and walk out backwards with the baby in her arms. It made a shrill cry as it was carried out. Made him shudder with guilt.
Names, he thought wearily. Names. Name day ceremony. Offerings at the Great Temple. Telling Darath. Confirming the news to Celyse. The Emperor would have to be informed of the birth of an heir to the Lord of the Rising Sun his Nithque. He summoned a messenger, started composing a formal letter to Celyse.
And then a servant came running, terrified to interrupt him, to tell him that March Verneth had died.
PART THREE
FIRES
Chapter Nineteen
The Great Feast of Sunreturn had been going for six days now, and seemed in no danger of stopping. Amazing anyone had the stamina. Amazing anyone had the stomach capacity. Amazing anyone was still conscious. The people of Morr Town danced in the streets, kissed strangers like they were old lost loves. A huge bonfire had been raised in the main square, the wood treated with something so that it burned green. Gangs of men wandered the town, masked in leather, branches hung with bones and bells and ribbons fastened to their heads to resemble the antlers of stags. They carried buckets of pitch. Torches, long leather paddles, knives. Daubed pitch on doorways and window ledges, set it burning then beat out the flames. Shouted “Luck! Luck! Luck!” as they danced. On the crag above the city, the high towers of Malth Elelane were
hung with golden banners, sewn with golden bells that chimed night and day. Huge wreaths of branches and horse skulls had been raised over the open gates. Bonfires were lit in the courtyards, on the walkways at the tops of the great outer walls. There too the smoke was greasy, the flames green and too bright.
The whole effect was striking. Especially the centrepiece. Difficult not to be struck by a load of corpses, chains ringing out louder than the bloody bells when the wind got up. Very bright and festive looking, hanging there on the wall like wreaths, Queen Elayne’s hair was almost the same colour as the banners, where it wasn’t covered with blood and bird shit, and several of the women had been wearing jewelled dresses that still sparkled fetchingly in the sun.
Tobias didn’t as a general rule approve of hanging people from buildings. They’d done it at Telea, in high summer, after the city fell for the third and final time. All the noble lords and ladies, a couple of higher ranking mercenaries, the richest of the merchants, some bloke who’d claimed to be a mage. Very impressive, put the fear of all the gods into the rest of the surviving Teleans and anyone else stupid enough not to think the Immish a model of reason and good governance, a pleasingly large number of people had rushed forward immediately afterwards to surrender up big piles of buried silverware and decide their wives’ and daughters’ virtue was in fact an eminently overrated quality easily tradable for an absence of rope. But gods and demons, it had been a bugger marching in and out of the citadel and having maggots and bits of rotting flesh shower down on you every single sodding time. Really hard to get the stink out of your hair.
That wasn’t a problem here, of course, seeing as it was freezing cold and snowing. But when you looked up at some of those blue lips and blue faces … Kind of worse than rotting quickly, that they were so well preserved, like they might sort themselves out and be up and walking if you gave them a hot bath and a good rub down and a stiff drink. Queen Elayne had a mass of frozen blood blooming like flowers over her belly; Prince Ti was in pieces so small some of them had had to be tied up in little bags. But even their faces were sweet and perfect, delicately frosted with frozen tears.
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