The Tower of Living and Dying. Anna Smith Spark

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СКАЧАТЬ ‘That’s why I brought him back here. To be revenged. To destroy him. And that’s why all this came about. Because I brought him back.’

      All this, because Lady Landra couldn’t live knowing he was living. All this, because Lady Landra was filled with the need for revenge.

      Silence.

      Ru said, ‘You hold it gentle, with a loose wrist. See? Careful. Get the softness in the thread as you turn it. Good soft cloth. A bone spindle’s best. Gives the luck. Strong and supple as young limbs, we want it. Strong and supple and soft. Horse bone’s best of all, of course, if you can get it. That’s it, hold it loose, see? You feel the difference now?’

      The spindle turned. A small worm of greyish thread. The woman Lan nodded.

      ‘Hel, for warmth and comfort. Benth, that is safety from disease. Anneth, to ward off the lice. Say them as you spin. Hel. Benth. Anneth. Hel. Beneth. Anneth. Warm the cloth. Soft the cloth. Warm the wearer. Soft the cloth.’

      Keeping someone warm and keeping them comfortable. Keeping them safe and free from lice. Worse things in the world, surely? And more useful than most things.

      ‘Hel. Benth. Anneth. Hel. Benth. Anneth. A cloak to shelter in the winter. A blanket on a cold night. A bed to sleep and bear children. A winding sheet for an old man’s corpse. Hel. Benth. Anneth. Hel. Benth. Anneth.’

      Lady Landra had stepped out of a shop doorway in Sorlost and seen Marith’s dead face walking past her. Not been able to look away. ‘I’ll kill you,’ she’d screamed at him. He’d looked back at her and said, ‘You’re the ones who’ll die.’

      If she’d stepped out of the doorway a moment earlier. A moment later. Dismissed her glimpse of his face as an illusion. Looked the other way from him.

      Left him alone.

      Marith has to die, she thought.

      Lan said, ‘I have to leave, Ru.’

      ‘So you said. Stay a few weeks to get some supplies in for me.’ Ru broke off the spinning, set down the thread. ‘Someone from the village to help me would be a kindness. To look after the goats, tend the field by Pelen Brook. But don’t look for my skin.’ Ru took up the spindle again. ‘And don’t go looking for revenge.’

      So it was settled. A farmer in the village had a daughter who would go to Ru, live at the house, do the work, take the place as hers with Ru living there to spin wool and sleep in the corner where Lan had slept.

      Ru gave Lan the stinking yellow gold cloth. ‘There’s no purpose to it,’ she said to Lan. ‘I can’t go down to the shore now, even, to gather more of the threads.’

      ‘You could teach Kova, when she comes.’

      ‘I could.’

      I did all I could do, thought Lan. Kova will work the farmstead better than I ever could. Manage the goats better, cook better food. Kova will maybe find a man to marry, has a man in the village already maybe, they’ll have children and Ru will look after them like a grandmother. They’ll bury her nicely on the seashore when she dies.

      And gold and silver pieces will blossom over her grave and they’ll all live happy in a marble palace, thought Lan, and the sun will always shine. Kill them all and burn them and spit on the ashes. The world’s a cruel place.

      ‘Have this too,’ said Ru. She pressed a small bone spindle into Lan’s hands. Lan looked at it. ‘Horse bone,’ said Ru. ‘My husband’s father made it.’ Worn and yellowed. Old.

      ‘How old are you, Ru?’ Lan asked, while she thought of the tales of the sea folk she’d heard. Deathless. Ageless. Gods. Carin had been fascinated by them, but they’d never much interested her. Peasant people. Sea things. Men things, also. Rape and kidnap and desire. Keeping something you shouldn’t.

      Weak things.

      ‘Old,’ said Ru.

      I don’t need to worry she’ll die, thought Lan suddenly then. Fool! She put the yellow cloth and the bone spindle away in her pack beside the willow wand. Hel, for warmth and comfort. Palle, that is smooth sheen of a calm sea.

      Kova came next morning, strong and plain with strong green eyes. Seemed kind enough, Lan thought, judging her with a new way of judging that Landra Relast had not known. Her hands were strong, used to work. Her face was meek. She looked a little afraid of Ru. Maybe she knew what Ru was.

      ‘There’s soap and candles in the cupboard by your bed,’ Lan told Ru. She did not say that she had traded the silver ring she had worn for them. To Kova she said, ‘There’s bread in the pantry, flour and butter in the crocks. I milked the goats this morning. They don’t give much. There’s a nice bank of winter mint on the path down to Pelen Brook, near the big ash tree. Ru likes it in the stew.’ She took Kova out to the vegetable garden behind the house, all bare now apart from black kale ragged like leather. ‘She tries to do more than she should,’ Lan said to Kova. ‘Thinks she’s stronger than she is. Care for her and she’ll be kind.’ Kova looked at her with strong green eyes and strong hands used to work and a meek face. ‘I’ve a sister who’s marrying a fisherman, mistress,’ Kova said.

      Some, some in this world must be kind.

      So that was that. Lan set off slowly down the path into the village.

      There were rumours flying in the village of things happening in the lords’ halls, ships and soldiers summoned to Malth Elelane, mutterings of war. Lan walked with slow steps along the coast road. Walking the road again alone was the worst thing. Without her name and her wealth she was nothing. How strange it was. This was how Marith had been, she thought dully as she walked. Nameless and powerless. She remembered Thalia on the moorland stumbling in the cold, the way Marith’s eyes had been when he looked at her. Little wonder he felt so angry now. But this was also what he had wanted, she thought. To be nothing. To be the thing that was hurt, not the thing that did the hurting. ‘I was happy,’ he’d said. ‘I didn’t ask to come back. To be king.’ Briefly, she thought, briefly he had escaped.

      She walked on all day. She tried not to think of Ru in the damp dirty house that was warm. She stopped in the evening in a way house, huddled in the corner furthest from the doorway, frightened someone might come. Cold greasy trimmings of meat, bread, water: she placed some of each carefully before the godstone at the entrance, saw its gratitude in its blank faceless eyeless face. Before she tried to sleep she got out her pack and looked at the things she had. A horse-bone spindle. A scrap of yellow cloth. A broken twig that was bound to her skin. A gold ring stamped with a bird flying, her father’s crest.

      ‘Eltheia,’ she prayed as she curled up on the stone ledge to sleep, ‘Eltheia, fairest one, keep safe, keep safe.’ She slept with the bone spindle in her hand, dry and smooth and chipped at the edge, old yellow bone riddled with tiny holes where it was chipped, carved from the shoulder bone of an old broken-down farm horse that she heard galloping in her dream. The things that walked the lich roads walked past her, and let her be.

      ‘I am not going looking for revenge,’ she said aloud when she woke to frost crisp white-silver on the dark ground. ‘I am going to make him nothing. As he wanted to be.’ A bird flew up cawing from the trees behind the way house. ‘Not revenge.’

      The things that walked the lich roads walked past her. Laughed.

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