The Tower of Living and Dying

by Anna Smith Spark

  “It’s what Sorlost is famous for,” he says. Puzzled. “Isn’t it? The decaying heart of a decayed empire. A city of such wealth and such squalor. A rotting corpse.”

  “I …” I feel my face hot with something that might be shame. “I didn’t know …”

  I have seen old pictures of emissaries from half the world kneeling in the Great Temple, spellbound and trembling before the might of Great Tanis Who Rules All Things. Now I officiate to peasants and petty merchants, while foreign kings laugh at us for our beliefs behind fat fingers. Pointless, it seems sometimes. All the candles, all the gold and silver and bronze. Pointless, in the way most lives are pointless. A ritual motion we must go through, for want of anything else to do or believe.

  I said that once. Told you that. But I did not understand … I thought that I had some kind of power, when I was the High Priestess of Great Tanis, the holiest woman in all Irlast. I killed men and women and children, to keep my city as it is.

  “It’s so strange, isn’t it?” Marith says then. “That I know Sorlost better than you?” He blinks with astonishment, thinking about it. “All your life, in one building. Locked in. I would have gone mad, not being able to get about. It’s impossible to imagine it.”

  It is strange. That he knows Sorlost better than I do. That he knew of its decay, while I did not.

  “I was the Chosen of God,” I say. My voice sounds stiff and foolish.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Truly. I don’t think of Sorlost.” Try to laugh. To brush it away. “If I lived in a cage, at least the women who cared for me never had to be whipped.”

  “And you would never have lamed your first horse riding it into a peat bog, or lost your best boots to an incoming tide, or been yelled at for tearing your clothes climbing a tree. I was beaten for that last. I was supposed to be being presented to someone at court. Not covered in mud falling out of a tree.”

  “No,” I say.

  Ah, Great Tanis. We should not talk of the past. Either of us.

  Yet I begin to see what Marith means, about Tyrenae. I have seen it, I realize, I have seen it and known it for longer, now, than I have seen and known Sorlost. Strange, yes. And I look at it with new understanding. It does, somehow, feel something like my Temple. Beautiful. But tired. Dried out. The great lords and ladies here drink quicksilver every night and every morning. They claim it keeps them in good health. But they and their city are so worn down. Weighed down. The air here is heavy. This, after all, is all that is left of Caltath that was home to the Godkings, who lived and lived and could not die and were so very afraid of death.

  And there is squalor here. Decay. Poverty. I begin to see that. I saw it, I think, in Sorlost, briefly in the streets, and in the faces of the people who came sometimes to the Temple. The people who came offering themselves for sacrifice, especially, I saw it in them. I begin to understand that, here. What it was. Some of the people who came to the Temple dripped with jewels. Others had the thin pinched faces of those who have nothing. No food, no shelter, no hope. I saw that without understanding, in Sorlost. I did not wonder at the blank broken faces that came to me, laid themselves before my knife. I see it now in Tyrenae, and I begin to understand it. Blind children and madmen go begging in the streets here. The wealthy look at them and turn away and do not care. “The quicksilver mining kills them,” Kiana Sabryya says. “That is all.” One day, riding through the city, I pass a private garden, very beautiful, very lush. At the gates a woman is standing. A servant. She throws fruit through the bars of the gates. Rotting apples: I can smell the heavy scent of them. A group of beggars gathers. They begin to fight over the fruit. “Come away, My Lady Queen,” Tal says.

  “But …”

  “All great cities are full of hunger, My Lady Queen,” Tal says.

  “I didn’t see it like this,” says Marith, “when I came here before. I just thought it was exciting, being here. Standing in the footsteps of the Godkings. Of Eltheri. I don’t think it can have changed much, even, since Eltheri’s day.”

  The first thing we did when we came here, of course, was go to the room in Malth Tyrenae where Amrath boiled Eltheia’s parents alive while Eltheri watched him. The second thing we did was to order the door to that room locked and barred, and to throw away the key.

  “It’s lucky, don’t you think, that you married a woman with no parents,” I heard Osen say to Marith one night. We had all been drinking, I don’t think Osen had any idea I could hear what he said. As I say, we had the door locked and barred. The next morning, I threw away the key.

  Terrible things were done here, in Tyrenae. Over and over. Torture and pain and hunger and neglect. The city and the fortress … they are well named indeed.

  But it is still a beautiful city, Tyrenae. In its tired old beauty. Despite what it is. Ith is a beautiful kingdom. Malth Tyrenae, for all its past, is a very beautiful place. Its towers rise so high that the clouds gather around them: we climb the stairs of the tallest tower one day, round and round, up and up, we are exhausted when we reach even halfway, gasping and laughing. When we reach the top, there is a room that opens out onto a balcony. We are above the clouds. They lie below us, a thin grey mist. We can see the city, ghostly, through the clouds, the copper roofs glowing green. Then the clouds grow thicker, higher, we are surrounded by cloud, everything is damp and silent. Before us, just out of reach, is a pool of quicksilver, a lake of quicksilver, perfectly still. It seems to glow in the cloud-damp. Marith throws a coin into it. The surface moves in slow ripples, heavy like the clouds, then is still.

  “What is its purpose?” I ask Marith. “Why are they there?”

  “No one knows,” he says. “Perhaps only to be beautiful. The sky up here burns sometimes,” he says. “Burns with cold fire. I should like to see that, up close. I saw a woman’s head bathed in mage fire once and wondered, what must it feel like?”

  Another day we go up there when the sky is clear blue, see the city spread before us, the dark forests and the meadows, the Bitter Sea. The mountains, north of Tyrenae, beyond which lie the Wastes and Illyr. It grows dark and all the lights of the city flicker beneath us. Like stars. Beautiful like stars. I am glad I have seen this place. Seen this.

  “What is that?” In the mountains, too, I think I see lights flickering.

  Marith looks where I am looking. Smiles. “You know, don’t you? Surely? What that is?”

  I look at him. “No. What is it?”

  “Think. Guess.” He smiles. “Wonderful things.”

  Oh! I think … I think I do. Oh. Oh! Fear and delight, both at once. “Truly?”

  “We’ll see,” he says. “Soon. You’ll see.”

  Yes. It is time to move on. To find new kingdoms. Make our own world. Our future, not our pasts. Places neither of us have ever seen. Who knows, I think, looking at the mountains, who can say what is out there, to take away our memories of pain? To give us new things. New life. The Emnelenethkyr, they are called. Which means, in Itheralik, the Empty Peaks. For we who are burdened by our pasts, surely a good name?

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  More plans. More logistics. More work. More feeling his head ache.

  A bigger army, now. Half of Ith seemed to have signed up for the adventure. Kiana Sabryya had brought him a small army just by herself, a lot of them women, which was proving … interesting for the White Isles troops. “They’ve got breasts and they’re wearing swords and armour,” Osen had honestly genuinely actually ended up having to shout at Lord Parale. “Amazing. Just bloody well get over it.” Some people could be very odd. Alleen Durith had a lovely troop of cavalry on beautiful creamy white horses, fast and strong with proud, clever eyes. The best four he gave to Marith, adorned with gold and copper trappings, cheekpieces set with rubies, red feather plumes on their heads. Marith, Osen and Alleen had a glorious day riding them very fast along the coast south of Tyrenae, stopping at every inn they found on the way back. But a
larger cavalry contingent was something of a mixed blessing, rather like the inn visits had been. More horses meant more fodder to lug across a mountain range. And these particular horses looked like they’d be a nightmare to keep comfortable en route, being proud and fast and strong and clever and very, very, very highly strung.

  So they had something like forty thousand men—men and women—people—argh—forty thousand soldiers and horses and tents and food supplies to get over the mountains. Again, the roar of the forge, the rattle of grain carts. Again, the long hours poring over maps and plans, talking with Osen and Yanis Stansel and his lords. Again, the ringing sound of soldiers training, readying themselves. The women of Tyrenae sat and wove cloth for ten times a hundred tents.

  Thalia’s wagon palace on wheels was coming on well, at least. Marith was very pleased with it. All green and gold and silver. The horses that pulled it had pearls plaited into their manes. A bed, a bath tub, a tiny desk, lamps. He and Thalia had a lovely morning choosing a selection of books.

  Illyr. It called to him. To rule in Ethalden! To raise again Amrath’s walls, Amrath’s throne! See the silver towers rebuilt, the walls raised in splendour, the glory of Illyr restored. Bury Amrath with honour. Avenge His death. The whole army was alive with it, staring away north with longing, it was the first and last word on every soldier’s lips.

  Just a lot of work first …

  Marith was reading over a list of troop units one evening when Osen entered his study, with Thalia’s guardsman Brychan behind.

  “What is it? I gave orders I was to be left undisturbed.”

  Osen looked at him and Marith saw that Osen was afraid.

  Osen said very slowly, “My Lord King—Marith—The queen … This man here … he has things he needs to tell you. About the queen.”

  I need not fear. What have I to fear in the world? Cold gripped his heart. I’d know. If anything happened to her, he thought. I’d know. She had gone out riding early that morning, to see the Ithish woods all in their richest spring green. Two guards had accompanied her, Tal and Garet. She, too, had nothing to fear.

  “What is it?”

  “She—” Osen’s eyes fixed on the floor at his feet. Brychan staring around the tent, anywhere but at his king in front of him drawing up his war plans. Brychan’s eyes wide and rolling, young horse’s eyes when a man comes to break it.

  “What about the queen?” The air harsh as boiled metal. Trying to keep his voice level. Trying to keep from screaming so loud the men before him were shattered bones on the floor. His hands went to the hilt of his sword on the table. Trying to keep his hands from tearing them apart. “Tell me. What about the queen?”

  Osen pushed Brychan forward. “Tell him. As you told me.”

  Brychan said faintly, “The queen … My Lord King … You ordered me to guard her. To accompany her. To obey her, do as she ordered me.” The man’s voice shook, but defensive as well inside it. “I did my duty.” “I followed orders.” “You told me to.” “It’s not my fault.”

  “Yes,” Marith said. “She is your queen, is she not? You obey her.”

  “She is my queen …”

  Brychan lapsed into silence. Stared at the floor.

  “And?” I don’t understand. The burning pain back at Marith’s eyes.

  “Tell him,” Osen said. His voice was cold and strained and taut, like ice cracking underfoot.

  Brychan shuffled. “This morning, she wanted to go riding. She loves the woods around here …”

  “Yes?”

  “My Lord King—I—I swear this is the truth, true as I’m standing here. We were riding, she was ahead of us, she ordered us to go behind her, she was riding, she stopped her horse, like she was waiting. And a … a white deer came out of the woods. To meet her. White as snow. And its antlers, they were huge, they reached out like a tree, like branches. And, My Lord King, I swear, I swear this is true, it had a human face, My Lord. The face of a man.” His hands made a gesture. “It was a … a gestmet, My Lord King. A god.”

  Brychan lapsed into silence.

  A sick heavy dark.

  Marith said, “And what did Thalia—did the queen—what did the queen do?”

  Brychan’s voice shrank to a whisper. “She was not afraid. She looked at it. It looked at her. I thought she was going to go towards it. Then she stopped, and made a gesture with her hand to shoo it away. And it went.” The head went up a little, defensive and on surer ground. “And she rode on. And we followed her. She went on, and then rode back.”

  Silence.

  “Thank you.” Still he kept his voice level. “That will be all. Thank you, Brychan.”

  Brychan turned to go. He’d pissed himself. A pool of piss dribbling down to the floor. Marith watched him, trembling. After Brychan had gone he sank down with his head resting in his hands.

  “Why did he tell you?” His voice was dry as though he hadn’t spoken since the world was born.

  Osen said, “He was afraid. And he is in love with her, of course.” And Osen too looked older when he said it, stone man, remorseless, driving in the pain.

  “Why did you tell me?”

  Osen the stone man said, “I thought you needed to know.”

  “So now I know.” Marith gestured to the doorway. “Leave.”

  Osen took three steps, stopped, turned again. “And something else. I have to tell you something else. About her. Something else the man Brychan told me, that solved something that was puzzling me.” His eyes met Marith’s and they were as cruel. His friend. “It is not only … whatever it was he saw, that she has been meeting with. She is betraying you, Marith.”

  On the red leather surface of the table, on top of the lists of soldiers, Osen placed a gold necklace set with amber, that had once belonged to Queen Elayne, that Marith had given to Thalia.

  “I got this from a girl in Morr Town. She got it from a market seller. He got it from a young woman with a grand lady’s voice and a burned face.”

  Drive the knife in. Harder. Harder.

  Death! Death! Death!

  Confront her.

  Betrayer. Like all the rest. Mother, father, brother, friend, wife.

  Kill her. Her and Carin both. Killing him, and he had to kill them first.

  Gods, yesterday they’d been standing on the tallest tower of Malth Tyrenae, looking at the darkness of their kingdom, and he’d told her he loved her, and she’d told him she loved him. Which she never had before. “To our future,” she’d said.

  Put his hand over the necklace. The amber was almost warm under his hand, softer and warmer than metal. The sap of ancient trees. Once, once it had been alive. A living thing.

  She had worn it at a feast one night at Malth Elelane. Danced, with the candlelight on her, dressed in white. The gold had glowed against her skin.

  Thalia. Thalia my love. The beautiful shining weight of her hair and her hands pushing through it like through dark water. Her slender fingers like branches, her hair rippling like water, a soft scent of roses and honey, cool dark river against his skin. Her hands on his skin, her slender fingers like branches brushing against him, like leaves, like water, like light. Her eyes. Her lips. Saleiot.

  He put the necklace into his pocket. Felt it burning there, malign, mocking at him. I killed Carin, he thought. I loved him. He loved me. Yet he betrayed me. Destroyed me. Yet I killed him.

  Marith sat alone, with the necklace in his pocket, the lists of troops spread before him on the table. Thinking. Making plans. The shadows crawled on the walls. The red star of the Dragon’s Mouth rose. The Twin Children. The Worm. The Dog.

  A good star, the Dog.

  Marith went up to his bedchamber. Thalia was sitting by the fire, reading.

  His bedchamber? It had been Selerie’s bedchamber. The bed, the chairs, the hangings, the coverlet of blue and silver and seed pearls. Suddenly, surely, the room smelled of rotting flesh.

  Thalia started. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She looked nervous, he thought. Afraid
of him. Awkward. “You’ve been so busy today,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  The room smelled of rot. Couldn’t she smell it? The necklace burned in his pocket. The amber looked like the dried crust of pus on Selerie’s wounds. The amber looked like the honey in which they had preserved his father’s corpse. She had sat in Selerie’s tent on Seneth in his ruins, eating apples and cream and honey, licking honey off her perfect lips.

  “Come here. What is it? You look terrible.” She held out her arms to him.

  She lost the necklace, the catch broke and it fell from her neck, my mother lost a necklace like that once, out riding, not my mother, Elayne, the whore, she lost a necklace like that when the catch broke. A maidservant stole it—so I’ll have every maidservant in Malth Elelane whipped. She gave it to a beggar girl who was burned as a child, because she is such a kind and good and caring woman and her heart was moved with grief.

  The man Brychan is mad. I should have him killed. Have his eyes put out. He is lying. If she met with a god in the forest, it was … it was …

  Look at her! Even god powers must worship her! The sea and the sky and the rocks and the sea. That’s all. She is radiant and pure and bright with life.

  I can’t ask her, he thought. I can’t speak the words.

  King Ruin. King of Death. What did I expect?

  “What are you reading?” he asked her, trying to find something to say to her. His voice shook on the words.

  She flushed. Hesitated. “Marith—”

  Held up the book.

  The story of Hilanis the Young. He had to bite his tongue, to keep himself from crying out.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” she said again. “Osen said he was going to get you to go out somewhere with him tonight.

  “I wanted to understand the history of the White Isles,” she said. “And of Illyr. Places we’ve been. Will go.” She put the book down. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I wanted to know.”

  Gods, all we do is say sorry to each other. Tiptoeing round all the stories. I tell her her birthplace is a corpse’s death rattle. She reads stories of just how vile my bloodline is. We apologize for knowing what everybody knows.