‘Thank you, Lord Fiolt.’
I will not die, she thought. I spared Marith’s life, only a little time ago.
The promise in Marith’s face …
She went back to the shelter they had built for him as king. Sail cloth, ship’s timbers, branches. The sand was soft under her feet, then the crunch of pebbles, up over the dunes, down though the sedge to the coarse bare flat grass. Men’s faces followed her as she walked. The man Tal sat before the ragged flap of the tent doorway, wrapped in his cloak, his sword on his knees. He bowed his head as Thalia entered.
‘Marith?’
He was sitting staring at the wall, where the canvas was ripped to let in a beam of half-light.
‘Thalia?’
‘The men took some food in the village. Osen Fiolt is having something prepared for us.’
No answer. She sat down next to him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘I thought … I thought … They should have welcomed me. They were there. My brother. My mother — my stepmother. They should have … they should … I’m sorry. Ah, gods.’ Spat out a laugh. ‘I told you I was afraid for you to come. But I really thought … She’s my mother. How could she not welcome me back?’
Memories: his face in the desert, his eyes soft and sad and filled with light like stars; his face in the golden morning, bright and living and filled with joy and love and pride. And she remembered also Ausa, the priestess in the Temple, her friend, whom she had punished and maimed and ruined, and who had asked after her in friendship when it was done.
Perhaps, she thought. Perhaps they would have welcomed him back, even despite everything, if he had been able to see them. Perhaps they still would.
Marith said, ‘Hilanis the Young skinned his brother alive, you know? His wife wore a gown made of the skin on the day he was crowned. My great-great-grandfather. Skinned his older brother alive. I found an old leather robe once, tucked away in a cupboard, I thought for years it was Tareneth’s skin. There was a mark on it I even thought was a bloodstain. Until Ti pointed out he would have had to be five feet wide and four feet high.’
Or not.
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.’