THE HOUSE OF SACRIFICE
Book Three of The Empires of Dust
Anna Smith Spark
HarperVoyager
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Copyright © Anna Smith-Spark 2019
Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2019
Anna Smith-Spark asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008204129
Ebook Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008204143
Version: 2020-01-10
This book is dedicated to my mother.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Part One: The Joy of the World
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part Two: The Golden City
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Part Three: The Forge
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Part Four: The Knife
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Part Five: The Ruins
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Part Six: The Glory
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Part Seven: The Warmth of Her Light
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Acknowledgements
Also by Anna Smith Spark
About the Publisher
PART ONE
Hail Him. Behold Him.
Wolf lord, lord of carrion,
Joy to the sword that is girt with blood.
Man-killer, life-stealer, death-bringer, life’s thief.
King-throned, glorious His rule:
The sea-eaten shore, the stones of the mountains,
The eagles, the fleet deer, the wild beasts,
Men in their cities, rich in wisdom,
All are bound to Him,
His word is law.
With bloody hands He governs,
Sets His rule and His measure,
A strong tree, a storm at evening,
The sea rising up to swallow a ship.
The night coming, the sudden light that makes the eyes blind,
The floodtide, the famine, the harrowing, the pestilence.
King and Warrior.
Golden one, shining, glorious.
Life’s judgement, life’s pleasure, grave of hope.
The city of Ethalden, that is the most beautiful place on all the black earth of Irlast. Its towers are made of pearl and silver. Its walls are solid gold. It stands on a great plain of rich grassland, on the banks of the river Jaxertane that flows wild down to the cold dark endless sea. It is a jewel beyond comparing. The glory of all the world. Wondrous thing! Look upon it and be blinded, dazed by its magnificence, fall upon your knees, worship, marvel, worship. Oh you who are nothing, you who are but maggots, crawling pitifully in the bitter dust. Kneel and give thanks, rejoice that you have lived to see it, that such brilliance was raised in this blessed era of the world’s end.
Perfection is built here! Kneel, kneel, cry out in terror, turn away your eyes from its radiance! Its streets are paved with marble. Its palaces are ivory and white glass. Its bells ring out in music, the air is filled with perfumes, the river runs clear, the corn grows golden, the trees are heavy with sweet fruit. Treasure houses stacked with riches. Wealth beyond mortal ken. Numberless are its herds, its flocks, its swift horses; its people dress in silks and satins, its women beautiful as goddesses, its men strong as giants, in their eyes is the light of knowledge and power over all things.
Its foundations are living bodies, flesh putrefying, bones cracking beneath its weight. Its mortar is tears and blood. At its heart there stands a palace of desolation, built in honour of a mighty king.
Such a king …
You think, do you, that he would have died somewhere, in the desert, on the shores of the White Isles, in the ruins of Ethalden, if I had not saved him? That none of this would have been? You think, do you, that without him the world would be at peace? If he died, do you think that there would be no war, no cruelty no murder, no pain, the world would be a good and loving place? ‘Why do we do this?’ I asked him once. And he looked out across the world that we have made, and did not speak. ‘If not me,’ he said at last, ‘then perhaps someone else.’
My own city of Sorlost they say has been brought low by killing violence. We did not do that. ‘The people of Sorlost deserved it,’ you will say. ‘Child killers. Blood-sodden. Their city is based on murder, go there, Thalia, send Marith your husband there to punish them.’
The people of Sorlost are wise. They merely make visible what all the world is based on.
Take the bread your children are eating, send them to bed hungry, give the bread instead to the starving poor.
No?
In Sorlost, at least, they do not lie. In Ethalden, our tower built on human suffering, we do not lie.
Osen Fiolt is a bad man, for following him, for doing as he orders, for being his friend. Osen wants power and wealth, does not care where it comes from. Oh, yes. I wish Osen was not his friend. But I am worse, because I married him? Because I live my life? Because I do not stick a knife into his throat? To me, he has always been kind and loving. To me, he is a good man. As for the rest – I turn my eyes away from it, as we all do. Refugees and beggars stagger across the world, men, women, children, their tears are a drowning flood: what do you do? What more can be expected of me? Should I be better than anyone else is?
Читать дальше