The Tower of Living and Dying. Anna Smith Spark
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Название: The Tower of Living and Dying
Автор: Anna Smith Spark
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Ужасы и Мистика
Серия: Empires of Dust
isbn: 9780008204105
isbn:
Pain like knives stabbing. The filth of these people. The filth of this world.
Marith closed his eyes. ‘Let Ti have it. Have all of this. I’ll go down to the beach and die there. You should go back to Sorlost. To your God. Be free.’
Pain like knives stabbing.
The walls of the Temple closing around them. Blotting out the light. I ran from that, she thought. I will not go back.
‘You should be sorry,’ she said.
The doorcloth of the shelter jerked open. Osen stood there, the man Tal behind him, frightened and elated both at once.
‘Marith — My Lord King — Ships. There are ships in the bay.’
Marith’s eyes blinked slowly open. ‘Ships … how … how many?’
‘Ten. War ships. Large. But they’re not Ti’s ships. Not from the Whites.’
‘Not Ti’s … Whose, then?’
‘I … I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell, in this gloom. And they’re coming … They’re sailing against the wind. Not oared. Sailing.’
Marith got up, rubbed at his face. ‘Against the wind?’ He frowned. ‘Get the men drawn up.’
He raked his fingers through his hair, did not wait to put on his armour but belted on his sword, fastened his bloodsoaked cloak at his neck. Thalia followed him out, Osen and Tal following behind. The camp around them was an ants’ nest, men scrabbling to arms, meals abandoned, dice and drink scattered beneath their feet, voices shouting for order and discipline. The chaos trying to pull into something like the army of a king as they passed. On the beach the sedge whispered and shivered. A group of men stood watching the sea. Lights on the water, the ships coming in. Black shapes like clots of shadows. Silent. No oars indeed, sailing with sails swelling the wrong way to the wind.
A shout from the first ship, the splash of an anchor. A rowing boat came across, the oars making flashes as the water caught the light. It met the breakers on the tideline: men leapt out, ran it forward up the sand, beaching it clear of the waves. A man got out carefully, flanked by servants. Came across the sand to Marith, and Marith came across the sand to him.
The man smiled, his face livid in the torches. ‘King Marith.’
Marith tried to smile back. ‘Uncle Selerie. Welcome.’
Once upon a time, a long, long time ago now, there was a young king who needed a wife. And the wife he chose was called Marissa, and she was the sister of Selerie Calboride the King of Ith. She had yellow hair and grey eyes and she was sweet natured and gentle, kind and fair and wise and good. The young king, King Illyn, his name was, he sailed over the wine dark sea to her, and he married her in great splendour in her brother’s fortress, and he brought her back with him to his own kingdom, and crowned her queen with a circlet of diamonds and silver on her beautiful head.
So, nine months after the wedding, Queen Marissa gave birth to a baby boy. The boy was beautiful, a shining child, strong and healthy, with bright clever eyes. The whole kingdom rejoiced, that their king had an heir, and such a beautiful baby at that. The queen was filled with joy, she loved her son, doted on him, cherished him. Oh, such a loving mother! Oh, such a happy child she had!
But the king her husband was a bad man. Or, better, perhaps, say that he was a cruel man, for he did not love his wife Queen Marissa, for all that she was so fair and so gentle and so wise and so good. He was a bitter man, and a harsh one, and before he ever married Marissa he had had a mistress, Elayne of the Golden Hair, who was as hard and harsh and selfish as he himself. And Elayne was filled with jealousy against Queen Marissa, who was queen and mother and so bright with happiness.
And Elayne and King Illyn between them killed poor Marissa. They poisoned her. And King Illyn married Elayne and made her queen.
But no matter how she tried, Elayne could never manage to harm Marissa’s son, the prince, the heir to the kingdom, left motherless when still a baby before he could even speak his mother’s name. Though Elayne longed for his death with all her heart, to make her own son king. Though King Illyn longed also for this.
Marissa’s brother Selerie had loved his sister. He had rejoiced when she bore her child. Thus when the boy was grown into a fine youth, strong and clever and healthy and beautiful to look upon, King Selerie invited him to visit him in Ith. And this is the story which he told him.
Selerie Calboride’s war tent was blue and silver leather, the colours of Ith, gold leaf round the doorway, a standard capping it in the shape of a golden stag with antlers shifting into eagles’ heads. Fur rugs on the floor, two light folding chairs, a table in silver gilt, a brazier beneath the smoke hole, the dividing curtain to the sleeping place beyond drawn back to show a bed made up. Even a woman, dressed in shimmering green velvet, her hair braided with gold, holding a tray with a jug of mulled wine on it, steam rising to fog the light of her eyes.
‘Nephew.’ Selerie rose from his chair. ‘Would you care to sit?’
‘Uncle.’ The beautiful backdrop, the king in his jewelled robe, the girl. Utter humiliation. But a flush of pride crept into Marith also, that his uncle felt him worth enough to want to humiliate. He sat down and stretched out his hands to the fire.
A strange man, Selerie Calboride, King of Ith. Some people said he was mad. Though they said most Calborides were mad. Tall, reddish fair, with pale grey wide bulbous eyes. It was the eyes that made the madness convincing. Nothing like Marith’s father’s eyes, and he did not remember his mother to whom he had been told there was a close resemblance. But Marith felt self-consciously as though it was his father who looked at him.
The girl stepped forward to offer him a drink. Marith took it. Felt his hands shake. Very good wine, naturally. The warmth spread pleasantly through his fingers. The cup was almost empty suddenly. His hands were shaking and he almost dropped it. Tried to keep himself from staring at the girl with the jug.
Selerie raised his own cup. ‘As one king to another, then, Marith of the White Isles.’
‘One king to another, Uncle.’ Tried to look at his uncle speaking to him. ‘You’ve come, I’m sure, to congratulate me on my success. Such a triumph! But of course you always knew what I had in me to do.’
Selerie shifted in his chair. I hate you, Marith thought. I hate you. I am a man, a king. ‘I came to offer you my aid,’ Selerie said slowly. ‘Hail you as a fellow king. Promise alliance. The old sacred bonds between Calboride and the Altrersyr, back even to Amrath and Eltheri, that your father spurned. Help you kill the whore’s son who claims to be heir in your stead. I came to confirm with my own eyes that my only sister’s only child was still alive. My sister would weep with shame, were she to see you now.’
So it’s lucky then my father killed her. You think I don’t weep with shame myself? Marith said, ‘It was your decision to СКАЧАТЬ