The Tower of Living and Dying. Anna Smith Spark

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      The house was tiny, one room for living and sleeping, a beaten earth floor beneath the rushes, the ceiling hung with fishing nets. In the light of the hearth fire Landra saw that the man was young, not yet thirty, fair haired and fair skinned. A woman sat by the fire, also young, darker haired. A cradle stood in the corner, painted with the image of a deer.

      The man set the iron rod back beside the hearth. ‘I’ll get you something hot to eat. There’s some stew left, Hana?’

      The woman Hana nodded. She got up and helped her husband fetch a cup of water, a bowl of fish stew, a hunk of bread. Landra ate, frowning at the rough salty taste. Her hand shook exhausted on her spoon. The sound of wind and sea came loud through the shutters, over the sound of the fire and the calm soft rhythm of the child’s sleeping breath. The man and woman watched her eat, fear in their eyes.

      ‘My name’s Ben,’ the man said at last. ‘This is my wife, Hana. My son, Saem. She says she’s Lord Relast’s daughter, Lady Landra.’

      Hana stiffened, then nodded. Turned kind eyes on Landra. ‘I’m sorry, then.’

      ‘You saw it? The battle?’

      Ben shook his head. ‘We saw the light in the sky where it was burning. Men up on the moor with swords.’

      ‘Some men from the village went to look,’ Hana said. ‘Five, there were, went up there. Two came back. Said the other three … the other three weren’t coming back.’ Frightened eyes. Blinked, looked away.

      ‘We’ll make you a bed up,’ Ben said. ‘Get Alli the Healer to look you over in the morning.’

      Grief and guilt and rage. She’d never sleep, worms gnawed at her heart. The bed was heather branches covered with a wool cloth, probably infested with fleas, poking at her, smelling of fish. She fell asleep immediately she lay down.

      Woke again with a start. Grey faint dawn, the first traces of light clawing their way through the shutters, the sound of the sea very loud. Disorientating, the room unfamiliar, full of the sound of others’ breathing, the smell of damp. Earth smell from the floor. A great shriek of gulls came up suddenly, wild and angry, filled with pain. Something else behind it. Landra sat up, jerking her head around in fear. A roar like laughter. Silent out beyond the sky. The child whimpered in its sleep, the man and the woman stirred fretfully. Then quiet again. The rhythmic sounds of sea and seabirds and the world waking as the light came. The house waking, Hana making oaten porridge, the child awake singing, spilling its cup of watered milk down its clothes, Ben sitting down with a mug of weak ale to mend his nets. Does it not concern you? Landra kept thinking as she watched them. That the king is dead? My father is dead? That the world is changed?

      A little before noon, a man from the village came calling. Ben told Landra to hide herself in the half-loft where they kept their stores while he stayed. The visitor and Ben and Hana spoke in low voices so that Landra could not hear what was said. But when it was safe again they told her, and she saw then that they were concerned. The king was dead indeed, they said. His son was king now in his stead. Marith, whom rumour had had it was dead. He was known on Third, Prince Marith, visited often, a friend of the Relasts, he’d be a king they knew, where Illyn his father had been a stranger. Almost an enemy, indeed, old King Illyn: the Murades, Queen Elayne’s kin, were not loved on Third, being long the sworn enemies of Lord Relast. The fighting was over, for the meantime. That mattered most of all to Ben, that it had not spread beyond Malth Salene to encompass his tiny corner of the world.

      Concerned, yes. They looked grave as they spoke of it. Fear in their eyes. But Landra understood with slow puzzlement that for them the world was not changed.

      They would not let her stay another night. Too dangerous, Ben said sadly and shamefacedly, looking not at Landra but at his son playing on the shingle throwing stones. If the king’s men came …

      ‘I’m nothing,’ Landra said, ‘nothing. The Relasts are all dead.’

      Ben shrugged. ‘Riders are out on the road already, proclaiming the new king, calling troops. Can’t risk anything.’ He was young and strong enough to be a soldier, Landra realized then, looking at him. Any danger, however remote, however small, any voice mentioning there was a stranger at his house, his name being spoken to anyone, anywhere, must be avoided.

      ‘We’ll get your wounds looked to,’ said Hana, ‘but then you must go.’ She too looked at the child. Landra heard in her voice both the kindness and the threat.

      Alli the Healer was the village wise woman, witch woman, bone charms at her neck, hagstone beads over her breasts, the green of leaf juice ground into her skin. Kind face. Kind, thoughtful eyes. She smeared a greasy ointment on Landra’s burns. It smelled meaty and fishy and bitter, stung her, shimmered on her arms like a slug’s trail. But she had to admit it soothed the pain a little. The raw red wounds looked softer, afterwards. When this was done the woman rubbed a switch of green marsh hazel over Landra’s scalp, muttering prayers and healing words. Toth, that is the cold of water. Ran, that is the peace of evening. Palle, that is smooth sheen of a calm sea. Broke the stick in two, gave one half to Landra. The other half Alli took herself to cast away into the waves. ‘Keep it safe,’ she bade Landra. ‘Keep it safe and it will help your skin heal.’

      Hana gave Landra a cloth to bind up her head, making her look like an old shy widow woman. A dress, also, far too tight at the chest and waist. Stocky plain-faced Lady Landra. Never been pretty and her appearance had never been anything to take pride in and she’d never cared. A great lady, trained to rule a great household, raise a lord’s sons or the sons of a king. A beggar woman, half bald with no home and no name.

      ‘What will you do?’ Ben asked her. ‘Where will you go?’ he meant, encouraging her to leave. Or perhaps he feared she would throw herself into the sea.

      She had tried to think of this. How can I live? Where can I go? What can I be? She said, ‘I’ll go to Seneth. To Morr Town.’

      ‘Morr Town?’ Ben looked at her sharply. Sadly. ‘That’s where the new king will go.’

      Landra looked back sharply. Sadly. ‘Yes. I know.’

      Thoughts moved in his eyes. ‘I can take you to Seneth. But not Morr Town. The coast to the south, somewhere well out of sight. You can take the road across the moors.’

      Honoured guests disembark from their ships at Toreth Harbour and ride the golden road to Malth Salene. Murderers and outcasts and dead men take the lich way, and come in through the back gates where the middens are piled. So she had told Marith, bound and filthy, her prisoner, when she brought him back to Malth Salene, sealing all their doom. Such scorn in her voice. Cruelty. It had been a cruel thing. And Marith had bowed his head with shame.

      ‘Tonight, then?’ she said slowly.

      Ben nodded. ‘Tonight.’

      Hana gave her bread cakes, salt fish, a hard small round of goats’ milk cheese. She gave them in return the gold bracelet she wore at her left wrist. In the dark Ben took her over to Seneth, seat of the kings of the White Isles, where her ancestors Serelethe and Eltheia and Altrersys had once come ashore seeking shelter after the death of Amrath the World Conqueror, the King of Shadows, the King of Dust, the King of Death. Dark and cold, the only sound for long hours the slap of water against the hull, the creak of the oars. No light, for fear another boat would see them. The water in the darkness looked solid like black stone. Had to drop anchor and wait a little, when the mass of Seneth appeared half visible before them, Ben would not risk the cliffs and СКАЧАТЬ