Landra kicked in the water, her wet clothes heavy and dragging at her. The waves pushing her towards the shore. Dead hands holding her. Her burns stung. Washing clean. Salt taste of tears and iron taste of blood. Her feet dragged against the bottom, she swam and stumbled, hauled herself up onto a beach. A single plank of wood floated beside her, marked at the end with toothmarks. Her dress was leaking blue dye into the water, she noticed, and that made her laugh with memories. When the tower of Ethalden fell, she thought again, I wonder if the cloth-seller survived it? It is only a shame, she thought, that I could not curse the whole city to fall. But when the tower fell the rotting flesh beneath it was revealed, the ground beneath their feet is rank with dying, and so perhaps sickness will come and devour everyone who lives there. Let us hope.
She walked up the beach, her wet clothes leaving a trail behind her. She should be cold, she thought, the air should be chilling her to her bones. She should be cold and hungry and weak. Dead voices stirred inside of her, the dead the never-living that never grew weak. She had to scramble up to reach the cliff top. Grazing her damaged hands on the rock. At the top there was woodland. Some of the trees were already fuzzy with yellow catkins, which made her blink in surprise. A first sign of coming spring. Purple irises were in flower beneath the trees, and yellow aconite. Leaf litter crunched under her feet. Tattered skeletal leaves, fading to grey; hazel shells. Her hands ached. They were puffed up huge, the skin dry. The feel of the air on them hurt.
After a long time walking she came to the edge of the wood and a village beyond it. It was late in the day now. On the still air came the clang of a cowbell. Cows being brought in for the evening milking. Landra stood in the shelter of the trees watching them come down the track, three of them, brown and mud-spattered, swinging their big heads, slather trailing from their mouths. She breathed in hard as they passed her, the muck smell and the smell of their mouths chewing. “Kie kie kie kie kie,” the boy bringing them called to them. They went in through a tumbledown wall into the milking yard. Perhaps the farmer would sell her some milk to drink.
The village was poor and small, poorer and smaller than most of the villages she had seen in Illyr. A few huts huddled around a barn and a farmhouse. The boy noticed her, nodded. “You all right, miss?” His broad Whites accent made Landra shudder. Echoes of so many things.
“I… Yes. Could I buy a cup of milk, perhaps? Is your master at home?”
The boy looked at her sodden dirty clothes, at the cloth slipping awkwardly around her head. “The mistress is at home. Maybe… maybe if you stay here, miss, I can bring you out a drink? If you’ve coin for it?”
Landra handed him a gold coin from the ship’s drowned treasure, stamped with the King of Balkash’s head on one side, long curling beard and the ram’s horn crown, on the other a winged horse rearing up. The boy turned it over and over. “What’s this?”
That is the face of the man the magelord Ynthe Kimek burned alive with mage fire on his own throne. And that is a god spirit of the Kara Kol desert that King Marith Altrersyr beheaded with the sword Joy. “A gold coin,” said Landra. “That’s what it is.”
The boy looked more closely at her. “Wait here, then,” he said.
She leaned against the wall and breathed in the smell of cow manure until the boy came back with a clay cup of milk and a heel of bread.
“Thank you.” The bread felt horrible in her swollen hand, dry and rubbing. The cup also, the outside was unglazed and seemed to suck at her dry skin. She drank the milk with a long gulp.
“You’ve got a milk moustache,” the boy said.
Landra wiped her mouth. “Thank you.” Asked, “Who is lord hereabouts?”
“Lord Ronaen, up at Malth Pereale. He’s an old man, though,” the boy said. Dismissive child’s voice. “Didn’t go away to war.”
“His son did,” said Landra unthinking.
“And died there,” said the boy. “They sent his bones back in a leather bag. Everything but the head.”
Landra thought: someone’s bones, certainly. “Could you point me in the direction of Malth Pereale, then?”
“How do you know?” the boy said. “That the young lord went off to fight? If you don’t know where Malth Pereale is?” He looked at her coldly. “Why’s your dress all wet?”
“Which direction is Malth Pereale?” Landra said in her old half-forgotten Lady Landra Relast voice. It was stronger here, came out without catching in her throat. And perhaps other voices, behind it, because the boy looked straight at her face and pointed. “Take the road, there, when you get to the crossroads turn left, keep on. An hour or so, it should take. But I shouldn’t bother. Lord Ronaen’s a coward, like. His daughter’s mad to go off to the war, but he won’t let her go.” And then he blinked, as though he was surprised he had said this last thing.
“Is he now?” Landra said. “Is she?” She paused. A sick feeling, looking at the boy. Things uncoiled within her. She said, “Do you want to go off to war?”
Shrug. “Maybe. Not sure I want to come back in a leather bag, though. And not sure the mistress would let me.”
And for that, Landra thought, you will live. She might feel relief. She did not stop at Malth Pereale, looked at it from a distance hunched and grey and so poor-looking, now, compared to the world she had seen. Sheep grazed beside its walls, there was an orchard like the orchards at Malth Salene, with pigs grubbing beneath the bare trees. She went on through the night, not needing to sleep, walking south down the coast road slowly slowly towards Morr Town. And then Morr Town would be destroyed, and all the people there would die. At dawn she came to a village, stopped at the inn there for a meal. The place was poor and ragged: but the White Isles are rich, she thought, rich in timber and fruits and grains and herds, the whole world knows it.
As she sat in the inn three young men with bundles on their backs gathered in the street together just outside, a woman embraced one of them, an old man shook another’s hand. The third stood and watched with a sad, scornful look on his face. They were going to war, Landra the gabeleth the gestmet the dead thought. The people of the village came out to see them off with shouts for good luck. So. She reached out her hands for them. A little later Landra walked down the road with the village dead and gone behind her, walking slowly slowly towards Morr Town.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Tobias
The Mountains of Pain. Very, very aptly named and the world’s best ever funniest joke
A trail of wounded staggered through the mountains. Wailed like seagulls. Crows big as vultures coming down in their faces picking at them. Like flies. Wounds oozing in the heat. Pus and sweat.
Got really bloody hot suddenly. Like proper southern heat. And raining: it barely ever rains here, they say, should be grateful, the locals must be out jumping up and down singing with happiness. Knee-deep in mud full of insects. All the world rushing up alive, plants and insects and animals, gods, you could see it and smell it, that lush living rain-damp hot-air scent. Swelling all the streams, glutting the mountain slopes, nourishing the fields. Ideal breeding ground for wound rot. The lost and the wounded, hiding in the wooded valleys, in the mountain caves, digging in trying to make any decision, frightened, defeated, uncertain which way to go or what they would find, soldiers and camp followers all mixed together, scattered, all of them stinking of bloody wound rot.
Mountains. Valleys. Rock falls. High passes. Enemy soldiers. Pissing it down.
Got up higher, where the mountain slopes were barren. Huge outcrops of black rock rearing up out of grey soil, that had to be scrambled up or around. Hidden gullies overflowing with rainwater, overgrown with dark scrawny trees. Tamas birds shrieked and called, sounded like they were speaking. Was sure, briefly, that one of them was shouting “Hail King Marith!” Which was creepy and freaky and stupid and way too frigging weird as an insight into the state of his mind. There were enemy soldiers moving down in the valleys, harrying the survivors; they had heard fighting ahead of them in the e
arly afternoon and again at dusk, from a high slope they looked down to watch horsemen skirmishing far below. Impossible, from that distance, to tell which side won. They had to stop for the night shortly afterwards, sat down in the shelter of an overhanging rock face on soaked grey earth you could almost see growing, and the rain had even briefly stopped. Still had some dried salted meat stuff that everyone pretended was dried salted pig. Tough, gristly, bled-out-in-the-mud-after-marching-a-thousand-miles pig.
It’s pig! It’s just pig. If you don’t ask you don’t know. If you don’t know you’re not guilty. Shut up and chew. What will become of us now he’s died? Better things, maybe, like no longer thinking it’s normal to eat “salt pig.”
“I might even have some rock-hard soggy crusts of mouldy bread,” said Naillil. “If you’re lucky.” Rovi wheezed at her in a way that made Tobias feel sick. Gods, half the Army of Amrath slaughtered, half the camp followers slaughtered, but Rovi the walking dead man goes on and on.
“We should get on,” said Lenae. She was jumpy, twitching. “Might be more soldiers around.” They had their backs against the rocks, facing the way they had come. Camp followers of the Army of Amrath: think we might know something about what will happen if the enemy happens on us.
“No way. We stay here. There is no way we’re bumping into anyone or anything in the dark.”
Thalia sat alone, staring off at the sky. Her cloak was pulled close around her. She did not take the bread when Tobias offered her some. Or the pig. She had walked with them all day without speaking, just going along close to Tobias. She needed to eat and drink something, he thought. Say something.
“Eat some bread, Thalia. Drink some water. Speak to me. Hey, look, I promise, it’s not laced with hatha, if that’s what you’re worrying about. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Okay… no. Maybe, you know… leave it to someone else. Lenae. Naillil.
Nudged Lenae. “Do me a favour? Offer her a waterskin and a bit of bread? Like… talk to her a bit?” Thought: talk to her? About what?
Gods knew who or what Lenae thought of her. On the one hand, she was dressed in midnight blue silk sheer as cobwebs, diamonds around her neck, her fur cloak trimmed in silver thread; how many impossibly beautiful women with strong Literan accents and scarred left arms was a man likely to come across in one army camp? Lenae had seen the queen at a distance: call him biased, but she wasn’t exactly someone you’d easily forget. On the other hand—the Queen of All Irlast wouldn’t be wandering around with mud on her face in the company of Tobias and especially of Rovi because that would be stupid. She’d be… thought back to yesterday… dead somewhere. What was remarkable was just how quickly it had taken for everyone else in the whole Army of Amrath to be dead.
“I do like your dress. Very nice. Where’d you get it from?” “Top tips for getting your hair so shiny?” “Which do you prefer, a cup of wine or a piece of honey cake at the end of a long hard day?” Yeah, that was going to work wonderfully. But Lenae, bless her, went over to Thalia and said something. Thalia even said something back. They spoke very low so he couldn’t hear what they said, annoyingly. Thalia’s cloaked head moved a little. Tobias saw her arm move up to her throat. She took a crust of bread and the waterskin from Lenae. Further quiet talking. Strained his ears hard, pretty sure he heard Lenae say the word “widowed,” that being the kind of word people can’t help but say louder whether they mean to or not. Or he could be making it up completely to make himself feel better about sending Lenae to talk to her, it’s all going to be all right, they’ll be two women together burdened by adversity but drawing strength from each other determined to go on, right.
The two women spoke a little longer. Lenae took the waterskin back and came over to Tobias.
Awkward pause.
“She’s not anything like I thought she’d be.”
Well, that settled that one.
Didn’t ask the obvious.
The sun had set completely now. They didn’t dare get a fire going, just sat in the dark. Curled up in their cloaks and tried to sleep. Alarming sounds in the dark that might be enemy soldiers wandering around, or their soldiers, it was almost certainly a bit past caring what side anyone was on when it came to a bloke with a sword versus a woman with a crust of mouldy bread. Couple of alarming sounds and then fuck it. Crawled over to where Thalia was lying. Could tell from her breathing that she was awake. People don’t often cry when they’re asleep.
“I’m still sorry,” he said after a long time sitting beside her. “For . . . whatever.”
“For my children dying? For my husband being a drunk and a monster?”
“Yeah, well… I did warn you.” It was still raining. Warm, gentle rain. Her cloak was all wet with rain and her hair was wet. Raindrops on her eyelids. He thought: we’ll die out here in the wet.
She said, “I suppose I should be glad, now, that you have been following me across Irlast. Since I would rather be alive than have died there.”
“You could try going back and looking for him.” Pointed off into the dark. “It’s that way, I think. Just follow the smell of death. We can spare you a water bottle and a crust of bread for the journey. Two crusts, if you ask nicely. Walk fast, you might make it back by dawn. Bury him just as the sun comes up.”
Silence.
Hurt her. Hurt her! Yeah! Do it! Feels good, doesn’t it? Shocked him, seeing her close up, even in the darkness: shadows under her eyes, her shoulders bent under a weight.
“So where do you want to go now, then? Assuming this is it? Just tell me and I’ll take you there. Don’t bother asking me.”
She said after a long time, “I don’t know. Where can I go, do you think? Where can I go, what can I do?”
“In all honesty? Fuck knows. I’d say all kinds of things, anything you want to do, if it weren’t for all the other things. You’re beautiful, and clever, and there’s power in you. Oh yes. But, in all honesty, Thalia, girl, I’d suggest hiding away somewhere for the rest of your life under a different name.”
She made a funny noise in her throat. He realized after a bit that she was trying to laugh.
“I have a temple in the Eternal City of Sorlost the Golden, where I am the holiest and most powerful woman in the world, the Chosen of Great Tanis the Lord of Living and Dying Who Rules All Things, I am the only person in all Irlast who may shed blood for the God. I have a fortress and a temple to myself, in Ethalden, my bedchamber there has walls of diamond, my bed is made of pearls, my throne is solid gold. My temple there is made all of solid gold.” She shook her head. “What can I do with my life, Tobias?”
“You could learn, Thalia. Most people do.”
Dreamily, almost: “I could sail away perhaps, find an island somewhere in the Bitter Sea, like Eltheia.”
Kindly, trying not to laugh out loud: “Worse things I can think of, yeah. I could maybe even find you a ship. Not made of gold, but it was once called the Brightwatch.”
No reaction. She didn’t remember the name, or more likely never knew it. He was probably glad of that.
“I was a queen.” She stared out into the dark. “If I had drawn a different lot I would be twenty years dead.”
“You could have been a priestess in the Temple,” he said pettishly. “Don’t be too dramatic. Worn a grey robe and a mask, lit candles, sung songs.”
No reaction to that, either. Dreaming into the darkness. Self-pitying. You can see why Marith and her got along.
She said, “You were the third man I ever spoke to, Tobias. Did you know that? Tolneurn, the Imperial Presence in the Temple; Marith; you.”
What? Really? No. Gods. “That…” tried to think about how to phrase it, “that… must have had an interesting effect on your view of the world.” Found himself saying: “Rate must have been the fourth man you ever spoke to, then, and you killed him.”
Choking sound. Like a dying man’s breathing. Oh fucking hells. “But he would have got himself killed one way or another.” Trite wisdom.
Possibly true.
She said, talking to herself as much as to him, “Or perhaps there were others, before Marith, that I could have spoken to, who would have protected me from danger, asked me if I needed helping, offered me kindness, but who did not stick in my mind the way Marith did. I wanted to be free. Marith—and you… He seemed to offer that. He seemed to offer so much… I looked at him and I saw…” She shook her head. “Beauty and hope. All the dreams of a glorious romantic life. His hope for me.”
Hope? Hope? A hollow laughing sound, and then some. He said crudely, “And why is he such a bloody pissing sack of shit, then? Why was he, I mean.”
Thalia didn’t bother moving herself to reply. Stared past him into the night, her hand twisting over the scars on her arm. In the dark he could see the shadows in her face, under her eyes.
“That man Robi—”
“Rovi.”
“Rovi, I’m sorry. What…” She knew, of course. And he knew why she was saying it. “What happened to him?”
“Nothing special.”
“He wants to die,” said Thalia.
“Probably, yep.”
“He’s from Illyr. His family were killed?”
“His family were killed, yeah. His village was destroyed. He killed some people and saw some other people die, he almost got killed himself. Now he’s here, following Naillil around, depressing her.”
“He—” Silence.
“Like I say, nothing special. Not compared to having a crown on your head. You should get some sleep,” he said awkwardly. “Long walk tomorrow. I should let you get some sleep. Try to get to sleep. You’ll need it.”
“Yes. I should.” She lay down. In the dark, he saw her cradle her beautiful head on her beautiful arms, hunch herself up. “Tobias?”
“Yes?”
“Marith… I remember Ninia telling me a story, when I was a child, in my bedroom in the Great Temple. In the dark, like this. About a queen of Allene, during the Salavene Wars, when Allene was sacked by the Immish. Her baby son was torn from her arms and killed in front of her. She killed the man who did it, tore out his throat with her hands and her teeth. The gods of Allene turned her into a dog to reward her for her valour, let her spend the rest of her life howling over the man’s grave, worrying at his dry dead bones. Ninia told it to me to frighten me. She was cruel like that. It was a reward for the queen. I remember so clearly Ninia saying that.”
The House of Sacrifice Page 27