“You were dead,” said Ryn. “Alleen Durith said you were dead.”
Marith’s hand also on his sword hilt. “I’m sure he did.”
Kill him.
Kill him.
Could already taste Ryn’s blood in his mouth.
Horse’s hooves. Kiana rode up to them. Marith heard her sigh deeply.
“Kiana?” Ryn called out. “I thought… you would be with Alleen Durith.”
Kiana snorted. “As I have already told you, I am not a traitor, Ryn.” She pushed the horse right up to them, so that Marith had to step back. Looked down at Ryn from the saddle. Her face was a picture of disgust. She looked at Ryn the way Tiothlyn had sometimes looked at Marith.
“I am exhausted,” she said dryly. “My whole body hurts, I’m half-starved, my clothes are falling apart on me. And, yes, I am vulnerable because my legs are damaged and hurt like murder, and I need help to walk. So you, Ryn Mathen of Chathe, traitor and coward, will give me help.”
Ryn felt her look. Flushed. Marith thought: delightful thing about betraying friends, Ryn. Putting a proper face to it.
Ryn’s hand tighter on his sword hilt. Eyes fixed now on Kiana. Armed men all around them. Full night, suddenly, the last of the light gone, and it was impossible to see their faces. Even the torchlight dimmed.
“Don’t,” said Kiana. “Don’t, Ryn.” Her hand, too, on her sword hilt.
Her horse stamped its front hooves. An accident, perhaps. Shook its head, mouthed at the bit. Kiana jolted in the saddle.
Ryn shouted. Drew his sword. Kiana drew her sword.
Marith grabbed at her horse’s bridle.
“Please, Ryn,” he said.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Ryn’s face was unreadable. He sheathed his sword very carefully. His eyes never left Marith’s face.
“Help her down,” he ordered his men. “Lady Sabryya, help her. Bring her into my tent.” He half-knelt to Marith. His head was bowed, showing the skin at the back of his neck. Marith’s eyes were itching. Shut them, and when he opened them Ryn was standing upright, the two of them very close face to face.
“My Lord King,” said Ryn. “Be welcome here.” He drew back the doorcurtain of the tent and Marith walked in. Could feel Ryn’s sword behind him as he went. Sat down very carefully with his back well away from the tent walls, facing both the doorcurtain and the curtain through to Ryn’s sleeping place.
She could be in there, he thought. Sleeping. Or awake, afraid. Ryn followed him in, sat very carefully facing him. Kiana was helped in, sat facing both of them. Ryn gestured and one of his men went into the sleeping place, brought out a cloak and placed it over her. Alis Nymen followed her; Ryn gave him a look of contempt. Lord Fishmonger.
There was no furniture in the tent; they sat on the floor. It felt unpleasantly damp, smelled of mould. A girl came in, also smelling of damp, served them wine in cups of gold and ivory set with rubies and emeralds and black pearls. The scent of the wine! Gods. Gods. Marith’s hand shook, taking the cup. Gasped it down, held it out for more.
“That’s almost the last we have,” said Ryn as the girl refilled it. He held out his own cup. “You can have this one, as well, Marith.”
Ryn’s cup was enamelled silver, yellow garlands around a scene of fighting birds. It looked familiar. As did the gold cups.
“Fine things you have here, Ryn,” he said.
“Four cups and a few barrels of wine,” said Ryn. “Oh yes. Little else, mind, but at least the wine is good, not goat’s piss, anyway.” Reaching for it, itching to say it, nervous, desperate. Say it, Ryn, Marith thought. Come on.
“You recovered it from the enemy, I’m sure,” said Kiana. “All you could salvage.” Desperate. She was terrified Ryn would harm them. No, wait, she’s not stupid, she was terrified Ryn would throw them out to sleep in the wilds again under a tree. I’ll walk out, Marith thought, before he throws me out, I won’t beg again. Only one person I’ve ever begged for, and one person I’ve ever begged to. So come on, Ryn, speak. Kiana, and you really should thank her for it, Kiana has just given you a way in to it. Speak. Ryn swallowed, mouth opened, mouth closed, swallowed, come on, Ryn, you coward, you’ll have to say it, I’m sitting here with a cup of good wine in my hand after a month of bad water, you have to say it and there’ll never be a better time. You really don’t want to wait and say it tomorrow, when you’ve run out of drink; my shoulder hurts worse in the morning, Ryn, you coward.
Ryn swallowed, closed his eyes, opened his eyes. “I didn’t know,” said Ryn. “I didn’t know what Alleen was going to do. We were fighting, it was all going wrong, you know it was, Marith, my men were dying, and when Alleen… when Alleen…”
“When Alleen betrayed me,” said Marith.
Dry, rasping voice. “Yes. When Alleen… betrayed you… I didn’t know he was going to… to do it… but we were losing, you know we were, and I…”
“You ran,” said Marith.
“My men were dying. I was… I…”
“You were afraid,” said Kiana.
“Of course I was afraid,” said Ryn. “We’ve never lost before. I thought I was going to die. Weren’t you afraid?”
Marith said, “No.” Of course not. No.
The wine was finished up. Gods. Four whole cups of it, gods, the taste of it, licked at his lips hoping there was a last drop of it there. Something to eat, also, that might have been venison or more woodrat; Kiana seemed to enjoy it, whatever it was. Hot, tasted of meat. Marith yawned hugely. It must be getting late. Ryn seemed nervous again, awkward, glancing at Kiana and then at Marith and then at nothing. Alis trying to make himself small in the corner, sensible man who shouldn’t have followed them in here at all except he was sensible also not to leave Marith’s side here.
“If you’re still planning to kill me, Ryn, I should thank you for giving me a drink first.”
“I’m not… I was never… Marith…”
“Gods, never mind, I know you’re not. Does your lack of furniture include a bed?”
Ryn looked so bloody awkward. “No… I mean, yes… I mean, there’s no bed frame, but there are blankets and things, you should be able to sleep.”
“Good. For blankets and four cups of wine, Ryn, I forgive you everything. I mean that.” The girl drew back the curtain to the sleeping place in the inner room of the tent; Marith’s eyes caught her face and he recognized her. Osen’s pretty acrobat, who had showered silk flowers over him. Raised his eyebrows at Ryn, who flushed. I’ll have to break it to her tomorrow, Marith thought, that Osen’s dead. I’m sure she’ll mourn him. There was indeed a bed of a kind on the mildewed floor, blankets and coverlets in a pile, splendid as a cloth merchant’s shop: one of the coverlets had gold embroidery and looked suspiciously like it had come from his own tent. A chest that must contain Ryn’s clothes. Or Marith’s gold, thinking about it. A lyre, one of the strings broken. I never knew Ryn played the lyre, Marith thought. He struggled out of his vile clothes. Pricked his finger on the damned brooch. “Burn them,” he ordered the girl. “I’ll wear some of Ryn’s tomorrow, unless you’ve got a chest of my clothes looted here somewhere. In which case I’ll wear my black coat with the silver trim at the neck. I always liked that one.”
In the main chamber of the tent, the last thing he heard, Ryn was talking to Kiana, discussing finding her a healer and then somewhere to sleep.
A noise woke him the next morning. A murmuring, it sounded like starlings, no, like water, like a river, no, like rain, yes, that was it, like rain falling on the sea, rain drumming on water—he must be in Malth Elelane, his bedchamber there with the scarlet hangings, that faced east into the rising sun into the sea. It’s raining, Ti, curse it, that means we can’t go out riding; it’s raining, Carin, curse it, that means we can’t go sea-swimming—no, we can, I’m sure, in the rain, it will be fun.
Sat up, kicked off what was very obviously one of his own coverlets, he remembered the gold embroidery very clearly, that flower pattern, there was
a tiny flaw in it, just… here, yes, where the thread had snagged. There was mildew on the coverlet, the whole wretched tent smelled mouldy, sweaty. His cloak and his sword were hanging on a hook on the tent wall. He burst out laughing, because on the floor next to them the girl had laid out a shirt and leggings, boots, and his black coat with the silver trim.
There was also a basin of water for washing, a towel, the enamelled silver cup, a jug of wine. The wine wasn’t half as good as that he’d drunk last night. Nothing could be as good as the wine he’d drunk last night. He washed himself roughly, splashed his hair wet and rubbed it dry. The water in the bowl was black just from that. Dressed—gods, the feel of clean clothes! As good as the wine. The feel of clean skin and clean hair! Stepped out into the main chamber of the tent. Almost fell over Brychan lying on the floor in the doorway asleep. A drawn sword next to him. That could have been unfortunate, if the poor man had rolled over the wrong way. Marith coughed politely. Brychan sat up with a start, clutching a knife as well as the sword. “My Lord King!”
“I’m still alive, it’s fine. Look, they’ve even found me my favourite coat.” Brychan fastened his cloak for him, adjusted his sword belt. Wanted to feel he’d been helpful. Marith finished the last of the wine, pulled open the doorcurtain, stepped out into Ryn’s camp. Two soldiers stood guard outside. A cookfire was burning, a woman was bending over it stirring a pot. She broke off when she saw Marith, dropped the spoon, cried out.
“The king…”
The murmuring noise broke over him.
“. . . The king… the king . . .”
Men came running. Knelt at Marith’s feet, their faces pressed in the earth. More of them. More. Soldiers, camp followers, the woman with her child, the courtesan in her silk rags. There was a tree near the tent, thick with new green-golden leaves, a few last flowers, white petals fading to brown. The soldiers began to break off branches, pull down the flowers, wave them, scatter them.
“The king… the king… the king…” Like a lover’s voice: “My beloved!” A man’s voice, almost forgotten: “My son! My son!”
There is no way out. No, indeed. Always the hardest part, getting out, Tobias had once said. There is no way out and there never was.
A pipe struck up, men dancing, garlanded in branches, clapping and stamping out the beat. Clash of swords. Men embracing. The cook woman darted through the crowds kissing every soldier she could reach. They crowned Marith with flowers. Crowned him with leaves. Embraced him, as a child clutches its mother after a day’s absence, when it has been sad and alone and its mother sweeps it up into her strong arms. Crowded around them, cheering until they were hoarse. Bronze rang out in triumph. Armour crashing. Swords crashing on swords. Hearts beating out the war dance. The world was radiant. Warmth like midsummer. Golden sweet-scented sweet soft warm wind. The tree seemed to burst out in new blossom. All the birds of the air burst out in song. Saleiot: to shine. To sparkle. To dance like the sunlight on fast-flowing water. To live. Light, flowers, glory. There was Osen’s pretty acrobat, crowned in leaves, dancing; Marith caught her hands, swung her around to the rhythm of heartbeats, shouted in her ear, “Thank you for the coat!” She giggled. Kissed him with soft lips. He thought about kissing her back. The woman with the baby squeezed her way through to him, held her child up: “Bless my child, My Lord King. A blessing for him, please, My Lord King.” Marith found himself holding it. A pain, inside. A scream. The smell of it, the feel of it, the noise it made, its grave strange face. The mother’s face terrified suddenly, reaching out to grab it back, he thought: she’s afraid. Held the child up, kissed it. It began to scream, which made him laugh. “Nane Elenaneikth,” he said to the mother. Joy to him. “May he grow up to be a strong and glorious soldier in my army.” The baby cried and lashed out little red fists.
“See, he’s a warrior already, My Lord King.”
He kissed the mother. “He is! Brychan: give this woman your sword, for her son when he grows up!”
The mother kissed Brychan, too, as did the woman who’d been kissing everyone. The pretty acrobat grabbed Marith’s hands and began to dance with him; someone pushed a cup of drink towards him. Everyone was dancing, singing, clapping, pounding their swords on their shields. The sky was full of birds, singing.
“Why we march and why we die,
And what life means… it’s all a lie.
Death! Death! Death!
The king! The king!”
Ryn Mathen appeared, pushing his way through the crowds, trying to reach Marith. The cook woman kissed him. Soldiers dropped a garland of leaves askew on his head. He swam through his men to Marith. Stood face to face. Marith was taller, Ryn broader in the shoulders. Marith clapped his hand on Ryn’s arm. Ryn bowed his head. Knelt. Held out his sword hilt. Marith raised him up. Kissed him. The men near enough to see cheered. Embraced Marith, embraced Ryn, Marith kissed them, clasped their hands. The dancing grew wilder. Faster. Trumpets and pipes, drum beats. Marith threw back his head as he danced and there, brilliant in the sky over the very peak of the mountain the Needle, hung the Fire Star. The King’s Star. His star.
A flicker of light, on the mountain.
“The king!”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Orhan Emmereth, the closest confidant of Lord Vorley the Emperor’s Nithque. Said to be the most powerful and most dangerous man in Sorlost
Sorlost
“The demon has taken Elarne!”
Orhan said, “What?”
Darath was sweating. Had been running. “A man… in the Court of the Fountain… a man from Elarne… he said… Orhan, God’s knives, Marith Altrersyr… He has taken Elarne. Sacked it. Destroyed it. Destroyed it.”
“Marith Altrersyr is dead,” said Orhan. The letter confirming it is on the High Altar of the Great Temple. Across the city, new rumours: a friend had a sister who knows someone who met a soldier in the Army of Amrath, staggering out of the Mountains of Pain to confess the atrocities he had committed for the demon’s pleasure, beg forgiveness before he killed himself out of shame. “Kill me. Kill me. I cannot live, thinking of what I have done.” Stories of men in the desert who had put out their own eyes, cut off their own hands, to stop themselves doing again what they had done at the demon’s command. “I enjoyed it. That’s the worst thing. I did as he told us. Gods, Eltheia have mercy, I’d do it again.”
“Sit down, Darath, calm down.”
“Secretary Gallus said… the man has been arrested… they’re questioning him, I should be there questioning him. But his story . . . half the city must have heard it by now. Orhan. Orhan.”
Darath was crying.
“A host calling itself the Army of Amrath came out of the Mountains of Pain like a storm wind. They flew red banners. They flew banners of bloody human skin. At their head was a man on a white horse, crowned in silver, so beautiful it hurt the eyes to look upon him. His skin was pale as moonlight. His hair was red-black silk shining curls. On his back he wore a cloak of bloody tatters. His shadow came before him, and his shadow was as blood. He shouted a great shout and the walls of Elarne fell in rubble. Single-handed, he put every man, woman and child in Elarne to the sword. Rainbows danced on the ground around him as he killed them. He killed them a hundred with each sword stroke.
“That’s what he said. That’s what I heard him say.”
But. But…
Orhan said, very slowly, clinging to the words, “Marith Altrersyr is dead, Darath. His army is destroyed.”
Darath said, “Like the High Priestess Thalia was dead? Dead like that?”
“Alleen Durith—”
“He has destroyed Elarne, Orhan. He has killed every man, woman and child within its walls.”
“But—”
Darath screamed, “The city of Elarne is destroyed. The city of Elarne, the seat of the Kings of Chathe, the city that is our nearest neighbour, the city with nothing between us and it but dust, the city of Elarne is taken and sacked and everyone who lived there i
s dead. Go out into the city, Orhan,” said Darath. “There are no crows and no flies left in Sorlost the Golden. They have flown west to Elarne, to glut themselves.”
It’s not true. It can’t be. It isn’t. I went to Elarne once. A fine city. The demon is dead.
Orhan and Darath, huddled in each other’s arms, pleading with the world. Great Tanis, please, please, make it not be true.
“We could take poison,” said Darath. “Die here together, your cock in my arse.”
Even under torture, the poor wretch refused to change his story. Orhan watched him, begging, praying, until the man was too damaged to speak.
Thus in one of the great state rooms of the Summer Palace the Emperor’s Nithque Lord Vorley summoned Lord Cauvanh the Immish Great Council’s Representative in Sorlost. Cauvanh had a sick look to him as he entered, his pale hands drumming at his sides.
He knows, Orhan thought. He has proof. He knew before this.
“The troops we paid to leave,” said Darath. “How much do we need to pay for them to come back?”
They couldn’t be more than a few weeks’ march away. Six thousand men in black iron armour. A mage in a silver robe. A general in the Immish army who had once hanged the Telean nobility from their own city walls. That should keep the ravening hordes back for an hour or so, at least.
“No preamble?” said Lord Cauvanh. “No glossy flatulence first? How much do you have, Lord Vorley? Remembering that if you don’t offer it to me now, Marith Altrersyr-returned-from-the-dead will very soon take it.” He tried to smile. Failed. “My men are marching back to Alborn, I have just sent a messenger ordering them to march twice as fast. Every Immishman in Sorlost will be gone by tomorrow at first light. I will certainly be gone at first light.” He had the decency to look ashamed. “A hundred wagons of corn and iron weapons is even now setting out from Alborn to greet his army. My only regret, My Lords, is that I cannot tear down the walls of your city in preparation for his army’s advance.”
The House of Sacrifice Page 32