The Court of Broken Knives

by Anna Smith Spark

  Chapter Fifty

  I do not like him, the way he was last night, so full of himself and his pride, so full of cruelty and hate. Selfish and vile. Self-pitying. Half-drowned in ceremony and status. Rather more than half-drowned in other things.

  But then he takes me out into the wilds, riding fast with the wind in our faces. The land is hard with frost; his face shines and he reminds me of the frost. We go down to the sea and he rides the horse out into the waves and laughs when the water soaks the hem of my gown. The seabirds scream, and where last night they were terrible, the cries of things in pain, now they are poignant and lonely and catch my heart with grief. The most beautiful sound in the world, he says. They sound like the dragon’s eyes were as it lighted on the ground.

  We sit on the beach, in the cold wind. He looks at me as he did in the desert, when we sat beneath the stars, when he told me his heart and wept for what he was and is and will be.

  The landscape here is wild and strange like nothing I could imagine, bare rocks and barren trees and bitter cold, cold through to my bones, grey sea and grey sky and grey earth, pressing with life, calling despair. The sea! I could not conceive of it, he could not describe it, and now I see it it near breaks my heart. All my life behind high walls, dark enclosures or burning, blazing light, Great Tanis, who rules all things, but whose world is constrained to one building alone on the face of the earth. And now I am here in a place where the light is pale as water and the sky and the land and the sea go on forever.

  We ride into the sea and the water splashes my skirts and I feel washed clean. Scoured by the wind and the water.

  I could live here, I think. I could live here with him.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  In the cool sunshine of an autumn afternoon, they turned the horse away from the surf and rode inland, following a little muddy creek trickling its way through thick reed beds. Wild duck started up as they passed, and once a great white and black goose, honking mournfully. ‘Snowgoose,’ Marith said with satisfaction. ‘Means a hard winter.’ The sedge grew up almost as tall as a man, pressing in close around them with a hiss like whispers. They rode on a small raised track, thick old planks banked up over the creek. Another old road. Old as the keep. Old as the lich road. Older than dragon blood and black-red hair. Still and rotting, the land seemed in the frost. Heavy with bleak grey life. Another duck burst up, startled by their approach, wing beats vast in the still air. Then silence again save the whispering of the reeds.

  After a while, when the sedge and the salt seemed to Thalia to become oppressive, they came to a fork in the narrow trackway, a meeting of ways, one running on up the creek towards the hills, the other turning off to the left towards a wood and dry ground. Marith paused the horse a moment, then took it left. Thalia breathed a little sigh of relief. These silent marshes: she thought with deep fear what they would be like at night. In the twilight, the between time. Between land and water, salt and earth. In her bed in the chambers of Malth Salene, she would not want to think of this place and that it was near.

  The track they took led out of the marsh quickly enough, the wooden walkway giving way to solid beaten ground, the sedge to gorse and heather and thick coarse grass and small tangled trees bright with scarlet fruit. The way turned up and back towards the sea; they were coming to the tip of a low headland, where the cliff tumbled down in jumbled rocks to tiny coves.

  ‘Here,’ Marith said, pulling the horse to a stop. They had not spoken for a long time, riding together without needing to speak, together and alone. He dismounted, helped Thalia down, tethered the horse to a tree. They went on on foot for a little, to the end of the headland where the sea and the sky and the earth met and were all three things together. Grey rocks, rough and leprous with barnacles, slippery and shiny with green-black seaweed, worn and eaten into lacework and worm tracks and smooth flat surfaces like altar stones. The water white with foam, swelling and booming in hollows and caves.

  ‘Wait here.’ Marith scrambled down onto the rocks, carefully picking his way over the thick clumps of seaweed, between dark rock pools. He reached the very end of the point, where the sea washed over the rock and there was nothing around him but swirling water. He raised his arms, white and black against the grey rock and the grey sea and the grey sky. Shouted in triumph, the shout of a boy: ‘Hah! Hah!’ Stood frozen, breathing in the scent of freshness and wildness, salt and stone and decay, tiny, vast, alive like the water and the rocks and the sky. Then he made his way back up to Thalia, cursing and laughing once when he slipped and soaked one foot in a rock pool, cursing without laughing when he slipped again and struck the heel of his hand on a barnacled rock.

  ‘I drink too much to be scrambling out over rocks,’ he said ruefully. ‘Once I could climb anything and anywhere.’ He grinned and grinned like a child.

  They rode on, and came to a small fishing village huddled beneath the cliffs in the next bay, a bare handful of grey houses clinging to the land behind a shingle beach where the water churned up the pebbles with a sighing whisper, so close to Malth Salene but as far distant from it as the tiny villages of the desert were distant from Sorlost.

  So many voices, Thalia thought, listening to the waves breaking. All this silent land is alive with voices.

  ‘Hungry?’ Marith asked.

  Thalia nodded. Marith steered the horse down the track to the edge of the village, dismounted and tapped on the door of the first house. It was low and dark, crouching into the earth, windows looking out bleakly onto the sea. The roof was of reeds, black with pitch. Nets and small domed baskets were piled about. ‘Lobster pots,’ Marith said, seeing Thalia looking curiously. The corpse of a bird, dried and mummified, hung by the neck next to the door, beside a long pole of driftwood, salt-white, so bleached dry it made Thalia’s hands crawl. Rune markings were carved into it, black on white.

  ‘Protection against death by drowning, death by starvation, death by thirst in the midst of the sea,’ Marith said, seeing her look at it with the knowledge of its power. ‘Cheerful folk, hereabouts. But you’ll see.’

  The door opened. A woman gazed at them. Middle-aged, thin and gaunt-faced, but so beautiful she made Thalia draw breath in astonishment. Long hair, still dark and shining, great dark eyes, soft white skin tinged with gold. She blinked at them; when she spoke, her voice was low and guttural and harsh. Pebbles shifting in the waves. Water booming on rocks. So strange, hard for Thalia to understand, the cadences wrong.

  ‘Yes?’ The woman looked at Marith. ‘I know you. I’ve seen you here before. They said you were dead. Come back, are you?’

  Marith merely nodded. He did not seem to expect, or want, her deference. ‘We’d buy bread, if you have some,’ he said simply. ‘Milk, if you have that. Or just water.’

  ‘Sweet water or salt?’ she said in response, and laughed a harsh laugh. ‘You’re in luck, for I have milk, and bread, and curd cakes hot from the oven. If you’ve money for it.’

  Marith handed her a few coins. She weighed them carefully, then ushered them in. The room was larger than Thalia had expected, very low and gloomy but warm, furnished with a heavy table, benches, a great chest with a huge iron lock. More fishing nets hung from one wall, giving the place a strong smell of fish and brine over the peaty smoke from the fire. Marith tethered the horse then stepped in after them. The woman set bread and bowls on the table, disappeared through a doorway. Through the door came the babble of a child’s voice. Thalia looked questioningly at Marith.

  ‘Not now.’ He smiled at her puzzled expression. ‘Later.’ The woman came back with a jug of milk and a pat of gleaming yellow butter, warm bread, small yellow apples like those they had eaten the previous night, a long side of cured fish, gelatinous and silky as Thalia’s gown. Thalia ate hungrily, enjoying the food far more than the dishes she had been served at Malth Salene. Marith seemed to enjoy it too, ate better, his face filled with a simple pleasure. She remembered him eating the burnt bread and meat he had cooked at dawn in the desert, proud
of himself for trying. Perhaps he remembered it too, for he reached out and took her hand.

  After they had eaten their fill, Marith walked over to the chest. He bent down and touched the heavy lock, raised his eyes quizzically at the woman. She looked back at him, then shook her head. He breathed out a little ‘hah’ sound between his teeth.

  They thanked the woman and left the house. A sense of strange calm descended on Thalia as they crossed the threshold. The bird hung there, twisting in the wind.

  ‘Come down to the beach,’ Marith said. They walked down and sat on a rock looking at the tide coming in and the boats on the water. The sea shone pale silver in the light, the waves like ripples in a skein of long hair, moving slowly with the heavy liquidness of dreams. A knife blade of sunlight struck the sea far out, brilliant as fires, making the waves sparkle. To shine. To sparkle. To dance like the sunlight on fast-flowing water.

  ‘What is she?’ Thalia said at last.

  ‘Not my lover, if that’s what you’re worried about.’ Marith grinned at her. ‘You could tell, then, could you? I wondered if you might. She’s a selkie, beautiful girl. A seal woman. One of the mer folk. A tiny wild sort of a god. Most of the women in this village are such, and in several of the villages round about. The men go out with nets, at night when the moon is full, over to the sands that can only be reached at low tide where the seal maidens shed their skins to dance as human women beautiful as stars. If a man catches one and steals her seal skin, she has no choice but to stay with him. As long as he holds her skin, you see, she can’t go back into the water. So she marries him, and keeps his house for him, and bears his children. And because she is a god of a kind, he has great luck with his fishing. Until she can get back her seal skin, when she will leave him and go back into the sea, and curse his nets so that he will never catch anything but seaweed and sand.’ He thought for a moment. ‘It’s a kind of wager, I suppose. How long he can keep her, how much money he can save, how old his children can grow to be, before she leaves him to starve.’

  Thalia was silent for a while, looking out at the sea. ‘That’s cruel,’ she said at last.

  ‘Yes,’ Marith said simply. ‘It is.’ He picked up a stone, weighed it in his hand and sent it skimming across the water. He got up and dusted sand from his coat. ‘We should go back.’

  They walked up into the village and reclaimed the horse. It seemed quite contented, cropping grass in the shadow of an apple tree. Marith searched in his pockets and offered it a few raisins. ‘Stroke her nose,’ he suggested. Thalia raised her hand tentatively, touched the soft velvety muzzle. The horse snorted and flicked its eyes, then went back to munching grass. Marith swung up and lifted her up gently in front of him.

  They rode back inland, through beech woods brilliant with dried leaves. Something else Thalia had never seen. Something else that delighted and astonished her. ‘Trees made of fire,’ she said, ‘or gold, like a storybook.’ Marith reached up and pulled a handful of leaves from the tree, shook them into her hair.

  The ground was heavy and soft with moss. Squirrels chased in the trees; once they disturbed a herd of pale tawny deer, one white stag among them with great antlers twining like the branches of a tree. Marith caught his breath at the stag: struck by its beauty, Thalia thought, as she was. He made a little hissing noise, sharp in his teeth, and the stag started up and was gone in a flash. He breathed out slowly, and spurred the horse on.

  It was full dark when they arrived back at the keep. It confused Thalia how early the night came here. It must be so very late, she kept thinking. As the dusk fell, she had thought drowsily that she had lost track of time and days, on the ship, in the never-ending dark. Perhaps she should have been killing a man, tonight. Now it was night, and the stars shone down. The great red star of the Dragon’s Mouth was clear, but in a different place in the sky, so she had to search for it. The Maiden and the Tree had vanished, other stars she did not know shone in their place. Only the Fire Star she recognized. She would have to ask him the others’ names. But not tonight: it seemed so late and the sea air had made her so sleepy; Marith too yawned.

  They came into the great main court of Malth Salene, riding under the vast gatehouse of whalebone and bleached white wood, and three men in the deep red livery of the Altrersyr stepped out to meet them.

  Marith drew the horse up hard, his hand going to his belt. No sword, but a long knife. His fingers itched on the hilt as he drew it. The horse moved uncertainly under him, sensing his tension. Not a warhorse, not trained to fight, but he could feel it was ready to kick and lash out if he bid it to. Its ears flicked, maddened.

  ‘My Lord Prince!’ Aris’s voice, ringing out loudly, full of fear. Marith turned his head in irritation, the horse skittering sideways. Thalia’s body was rigid. ‘My Lord Prince, these men are … are sent by the king. No harm, I swear. But My Lord Relast – My Lord Relast would see you, urgently, if he might.’

  I’ll bet he would, Marith thought wearily. His eyes burned again, the skin around them crawling. He rubbed violently at his face.

  ‘Here, then.’ He gestured to Aris to help Thalia dismount, pushed the horse’s reins into the hands of a waiting groom. ‘Take Lady Thalia to my quarters. See she has food, wine, a bath drawn, anything else she might desire. Place a guard at the door.’ Thalia’s face was pained, as servants bustled her away. Dried beech leaves still caught in her hair. I’m sorry, he thought. We had one day, at least, you and I. One day. He walked with Aris into the keep, the three men behind them. ‘Water, to wash my face. And a drink of something.’ And then we’ll see.

  Lord Relast was waiting in his study, seated by the fire. He rose as Marith entered. Lord Carlan Murade, the queen’s brother, was seated at Deneth’s left. He did not.

  ‘Deneth. Carlan.’ Marith nodded to them, ignoring the insult. He took a proffered cup of wine from another wide-eyed servant, gulped it down then pushed the cup into the man’s hands and ordered him to bring him something stronger. He still had leaves and sand in his hair himself. Felt half a fool.

  Deneth Relast coughed. ‘My Lord Prince,’ he said calmly. Marith sat at his right, trying not to glower at Carlan. There was another bustle at the door, whispered voices. A servant hurried in with a bottle, then the doors closed and the three men were alone.

  ‘So,’ Carlan Murade said carefully after a moment. He watched as Marith poured himself a large cup of brandy, drained it and refilled it. ‘Being dead for several months doesn’t seem to have led to any noticeable change in habits, I see.’

  Deneth Relast snorted at that. Marith tried to smile.

  Carlan rearranged the material of his coat with a fussy motion. Cleared his throat. ‘Now we are all finally assembled, I suppose we’d best get this over with. So, then: My Lord Relast, I am sent by our King and Master, Illyn Altrersyr, Lord of the White Isles and of Illyr and of Immier and of the Wastes and of the Bitter Sea, the heir to Amrath and Serelethe, the Dragon Kin, the Demon Born.’ ‘My good brother’ implicit in his smug face, his fur collar, the way he gestured with his hands. ‘As we both know, the king’s older son is tragically and grievously dead. Buried. Mourned. This … imposter, this pretender, this false prince, is to be killed. Immediately. I am commanded to bring his head back with me to Malth Elelane, where it will be set before the gates as a warning to all other traitors. Obey me in this now and the king will be … merciful. He does appreciate that your recent grief may have affected your judgement somewhat. Being a father himself, who has himself so recently seen the death of one of his own sons. Your elder daughter’s head in a bag beside the imposter’s, the corpse’s weight in gold and jewels, an oath of fealty delivered at his feet. Nothing more than would be expected.’

  Deneth rolled his eyes and poured himself a drink. He refilled Marith’s cup too, while he was at it. Marith gulped it down gratefully. A very good cellar, the Relasts kept.

  ‘My father can go hang himself,’ Marith said after a moment. ‘I’ll do it myself, otherwise, after I’ve rippe
d the crown from his head.’

  ‘Your father should have had you strangled the night he married my sister,’ Carlan snapped back. ‘I told him so at the time.’

  Marith refilled his cup again. I’m more than them, he thought desperately. More than them. The knives in his head, blunt, rusty, cutting him raw. I’ll skin you alive. Take out your guts and make you watch me do it. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to see Thalia’s face garlanded in beech leaves, the light and the warmth, her eyes like the summer sky. Shadows crawled around him, drowning it out.

  I’ll never be happy, he thought suddenly. Tobias was right. I was right.

  ‘My Lords, please,’ Deneth said weakly. Very far away, his voice sounded. Distant as stars.

  Marith opened his eyes again. Carlan blinked and jerked his head. Very cold in the room. The seabirds screamed, louder and louder. Death! Death! Death! He got up and walked over to Carlan, his hand on his dagger. Drew his dagger, stared into Carlan’s face. Cut Carlan’s throat in a great spray of scarlet blood. So cold in the room that the blood froze, tiny droplets clicking onto the smooth oak floor.

  ‘You would appear to have burnt my bridges for me, My Lord Prince,’ Deneth said at last. His face was very white. His voice shook. ‘Rather definitively.’

  ‘My father’s troops can’t be more than a few days behind him anyway. Waiting just off-shore, even. Whatever was said here tonight would have made no difference. Even my head on a stick. You pushed him to it when you had him abandon me.’ Marith gave the corpse a push, so that it fell with a hard thump to the floor. Ice crystals crunched underfoot. He felt absolutely sure, absolutely certain. Could see, clear as if it stood before him, how things were and would be. ‘You’ll be dead soon enough, I should think, one way or another. And I’ll be king.’