Читать книгу The House of Sacrifice - Anna Spark Smith - Страница 8

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?

It grieves me, yes, I weep over it, what we have come to, what the world is.

In a different life …

In a different place …

There is no different life. There is no different place. There is here and now, there is what I have, what I can be, what I can do.

Kill him? Oh, it is rather too late for that, is it not? Leave him? Why should I do that? Because it would be a better thing than staying with him? Because I should suffer, for marrying him? Because he has done harm to others, and thus I should not find pleasure in his love? Because he is a bad man and so I should not love him, because you do not want me to love a bad man because I am – what? Because I should be better than that? If I ran away to the other side of Irlast, dressed myself in sackcloth and ashes, did penance with aching hands, tended the starving, kissed the wounds of the sick – so what? So what?

You do not expect Osen to leave him, renounce all of this. You do not expect this of any of his friends.

You will still say, perhaps, that I am a fool, lovestruck, blinded, his victim, that I would flee from him if I could, because …

We sit together, talk, laugh, argue, hold great feasts and parties, walk in the gardens, ride in the fields, sit quietly to read. I am trying to improve his taste in poetry. He is introducing me to the Pernish stories of his childhood. But I should not love him, because …?

We march onwards, an army like a storm, like the clouds rushing over the sun. The world trembles. The men in their bronze armour sing the paean, hold their heads high, smile as they march. The world bows before us. Every soldier here in our army, they are as mighty as kings. Life is good, life is joyous for them.

That is not a good thing, no. It would be better indeed if we were all to be men of peace.

But we are not men of peace.

I will not be blamed for living my life.