Anna Spark - The Court of Broken Knives

‘Going begging, is it?’

‘Think this goat was past begging long before we started on it. Worse state than the porridge, this goat.’

‘Delicacy, in Allene, slow-roasted goat guts.’

‘I’m not entirely sure that’s its guts …’

Alxine carved them all portions, serving them elegantly on beds of thin oat porridge flavoured with rotten onion. It tasted debatably worse than the beer. ‘Gods, imagine living out here, drinking donkey piss and eating rancid goat’s dick every day of your life,’ he said cheerfully. ‘At least we’ve got violent death to look forward to in a few days’ time.’

‘I think the beer’s making you maudlin,’ said Rate. ‘Lucky for everyone, it’s run out. Anyone know any thank-all-the-gods-I’m-no-longer-drinking songs?’

Such empty things. Pointless. That they could live so fiercely, in the shadow of the certainty of their death. That they could live at all, and feel contentment in it. Marith got up, walked a little away from the others, out into the dark. The air was very cold, pure and dry in his mouth. He breathed it in in great gulps. Stars blazed overhead, a thousand blind eyes. Gods. Beautiful women. Dead souls. The Crescent. The White Lady. The Dragon’s Mouth. The Fire Star.

It had been a long time since he’d looked up at the stars like this. He and Carin used to watch them sometimes, lying back side by side on mossy grass or the damp sand of a beach, hands circled together, hair entwined. Carin had known all their names. In the starlight his hair had been pale as ashes. Stars reflected in his eyes.

‘There’s your star, Marith, and there’s mine. Look! And there’s the Worm, and the Maiden, and the Crown of Laughing, and that big green one is the Tear. You see it?’

‘I see it.’ Spinning, flickering in his vision, a blizzard of light. His star.

But he mustn’t think about Carin.

The weight of the stars felt crushing on his body, the endless remorselessness of them, the sheer number of them. Looking up into them was like a death, an annihilation of the self. The great abyss, yawning over everything. The dark. All there really was was the dark. The one true thing. He could feel it, deep inside his skin. It knows you. Knows what you are. Stared upwards, letting his mind empty. Utterly silent, the desert. A man could walk forever out here until he went mad from thirst or loneliness. A man could live out here, in peace, away from everything. Just sit and stare up at the stars until his mind gave way. A man could die out here, slowly, painfully, burnt up by the heat of the sun and the dry dust. He pressed his hand into his pocket, where the six iron pennies still sat. I killed a dragon yesterday, he thought. The words exalted him. I killed a dragon.

He walked back towards the campfire. In his tent, he wrapped himself in his cloak and settled down to sleep, gazing up again through the tear in the canvas at the stars. The others were still sitting by the fire talking; he could hear their voices without understanding, as though in delirium or dream. It was strangely comforting. Like being a child again, hearing voices murmuring across the room as he slept.

Woke with a start to the feel of water. He sat up in a confused panic, momentarily uncertain where he was or why his face was wet. His movement woke Alxine, who sat up too, his hand going instinctively for his sword.

‘It’s only me,’ Marith hissed. ‘It’s all right.’

Alxine muttered something unintelligible, lay down, then sat up again. ‘What’s that sound?’ he asked, a note of fear in his voice. They were all on edge, after the dragon.

‘Rain. It’s rain.’

‘Rain?’

Astonishingly, gloriously, it was raining. Great, heavy, thick drops of summer rain, warm and fragrant, pounding on the walls of the tent like horses’ hooves. Marith crawled out and stood still, letting the water stream down his face and soak into his clothes and hair. Almost dawn: the sky was pale with the light coming. Men stumbled out of their tents, staring at the rain, laughing or cursing where the dust was turning to mud beneath them. They looked like ghosts in the half-light, veiled by the sheet of water. A little gulley burst into life, water rushing down it, carrying stones with it that knocked together as they went.

Rate leapt out of his tent with a shout of delight. He knelt down by the newly made stream, pouring water over his head and shoulders, threw himself backwards, soaking his head and torso, clambering out again a moment later shivering in the cold air but gleaming clean. Some of the other men joined him, so that the stream was filled with shouting, shivering, jostling bodies. Alxine, who had crawled out of the tent grumbling at the noise, stood and watched them with a grin.

‘You’re not going to bathe?’ Marith asked him. After time spent sharing a tent, the idea of Alxine washing was remarkably appealing. The great advantage of Newlin dying was that there’d been a bit more space last night between his head and Alxine’s feet.

‘Maybe once they’re done.’ Alxine retreated under the cover of the tent, lay down wrapped in his cloak. ‘Rain madness, the desert folk call it.’ He shook his head. ‘Never thought I’d see grown men so excited about getting wet.’

The sun rose, and plants began to unfold in the desert. The thorn bushes unravelled, releasing tiny green leaves soft as kittens’ ears; coarse patches of sickly yellow delft grass put forth brilliant pink flowers with crimped edges like torn silk. A flock of jewel-green birds descended to bathe and drink in the puddles. Insects burst out from the cracked earth, iridescent beetles the size of a man’s thumb, yellowish grasshoppers with huge brown eyes. Even a couple of small dark-coloured frogs that splashed frantically in the shallows of the pool.

Marith stared at it all in wonder. So much life. So much life in this dead place. The air smelled of life. The stream sang of life. The sky was luminous with life, colourless, liquid. He felt a wild peaceful happiness inside him, like when he was a child, standing on a high rock looking down into the sea, arms raised aloft in triumph.

‘ Emmna therelen, mesereth meterelethem

Isthereuneth lei

Isthereuneth hethelenmei lei.

Interethne memestheone memkabest

Sesesmen hethelenmei lei.

In the midst of the desert,

You came to me like water,

Your face gazing, like water.

So quickly my love came, like flowers ,’ he said quietly.

‘You what?’ said Alxine with a start and a stare at him. ‘What was that you just said?’

‘Maran Gyste. The opening lines of The Silver Tree . The original Literan, then Daljian’s translation. It just seemed … appropriate.’

‘Oh.’ Alxine shook his head. He thought for a moment. ‘It’s meant to sound dirty, I assume?’

Marith laughed. ‘You should read the later bits.’

The light shimmered around him, the sand like new silver, the air clean as glass. One day, he thought. One day it will all burn, and there’ll be no more living.

When they made camp that evening, Skie ordered proper watches set and kept to. They’d not bothered, previously, so deep in the desert, letting two or three men guard the entire troop. Now there were to be three shifts of five, and a proper guard kept while they marched. No fires lit, not even a small one for a kettle of tea. From this alone, it was clear that they were approaching their destination. The great disadvantage of campaigning in the desert: smoke or fire, even the flash of reflected light on polished metal, would show for miles. Caught out here, such a small body of men would be annihilated. Nowhere to run even if you ran: without water, a man would survive two days, perhaps three; without cover, he would be spotted and hunted down. Sound, too, carried astonishingly – anyone within twenty miles must have heard the dragon attack like a thunderstorm – so they were ordered to march and camp in near silence, communicating by gestures, voices whispering in each other’s ears. It would be a long, dark couple of nights from now on.