A Burning Sea by Theodore Brun (i am reading a book txt) 📕

of existence, as if all the wrongs ever done must be paid for and that some great god would one day demand blood for all the evil of mankind. Phantom gales blew in her mind. She dreamed of flying vast distances on the wings of eagles. She heard the crash of thunderous torrents so wild they could wash away the world, then the grind of wood and crack of timber. Once she heard her baby sister’s voice and was drawn by its sweetness to her ash tree in the Kingswood where little Katla sat singing, singing and twisting the horrible rope that hung from her neck as if it were a plaything. Once she saw Valrik. He came to her bed. He bent to her ear and whispered, ‘What’s mine is yours. What’s mine is yours now,’ and she didn’t understand. Another time she walked the paths of the dead, far beneath the ground in darkness, where souls were nothing but murmurs and footsteps. She heard Ringast’s voice, he called her onward into the darkness, called her to trust him when all around her hissed their sibilant lies. And then his steady footsteps faltered. She heard Thrand’s insidious laughter behind her and tasted iron in her throat. Whatever you have, I will take from you, he said. The footsteps changed. They became laboured, slowing into a lurching rhythm leading her into a black so thick she felt it brush her cheek. There was a sudden, shocking blaze of green fire, a lightning crack, and in it, for an instant, she saw his face. . .

Saw Erlan’s face.

It was the taste of salt that brought her round. She ran her tongue across her lips and heard the call of gulls high on the wind. She opened her eyes. Above her was an orange awning, rustling and ruffling in the breeze. She watched shadows ripple over its surface for a long time, mesmerized. They were beautiful. Her body felt hollow as a reed but her mind was clear. She lay listening to the soft whistle of the wind and the sigh of the waves turning over and over.

‘I’m thirsty,’ she said. It didn’t sound like her voice, more like an old crone’s fractured croak. There was a movement nearby and then a face loomed over her. She hardly recognized it till she saw the streak of white hair and a smile she loved.

‘Lilla! You’re awake.’

‘Grusha,’ she mumbled.

She felt herself gathered up in Gerutha’s arms and pressed against her warmth until, as if remembering her place, Gerutha gently laid her back down. ‘Drink this.’ She tipped Lilla’s head and coaxed a little liquid past her lips. It tasted like wine.

Lilla pushed away the cup. ‘Where are we?’

‘At sea. We have been for three days.’

‘The Black Sea?’

‘Yes.’ She squeezed Lilla’s hand. ‘We reached it, Lilla. And you’re alive.’ Gerutha couldn’t stop the tears welling in her eyes. ‘Oh, gods, I must tell Einar. He’s been worried sick about you. . .’ She wiped her tears and turned to call him but Lilla caught her elbow.

‘And Valrik? I want to speak with him.’

‘Oh.’ Gerutha stopped. Frowned. ‘Of course. Why would you know?’

‘Know what?’

She shook her head. ‘Valrik is dead.’

PART TWO

S

TONE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

If it had been a feast for a thousand, the preparations could not have been more frantic.

Katāros had heard that Silanos had spent the last week running around like a man with his tunic on fire, shouting orders, inspecting deliveries, scolding slaves, bullying cooks. The thought of it warmed his heart. He always enjoyed seeing a miser put to great expense. God only knew what the actual cost came to, but he imagined something staggering. And all this for not even ten guests.

That wasn’t to say Katāros underestimated the importance of this dinner; the integrity of the entire empire rested upon it. The Emperor Leo had asked him personally to arrange it in his capacity as parakoimōmenos – Grand Chamberlain of the Great Palace – which some said was the most powerful office in the city.

On its face, the occasion was a celebration of the marriage union to come between General Arbasdos – Strategos of the Armeniac Theme and commander of the second-most powerful provincial army in the Byzantine Empire – and Princess Anna, only daughter of Emperor Leo the Isaurian, the third of his name. One man honouring his friend. But behind it lay the deal that had placed Leo on the throne. This marriage was the price of Arbasdos’s loyalty, and Anna was the coin.

Katāros had taken his time readying himself before crossing the city with the emperor and his family. In the privacy of his rooms in the Daphne wing of the Great Palace, he had combed out his long black hair and brushed it until it shone, before arranging it in a style once popular under the reign of the first Justinian, and fastening it with a golden pin. He had donned the white silk robes of his office, applied rouge to his lips, kohl to his eyes – a scarcity in the city now during these days of war – then adorned himself with gold earrings, gold necklace, gold rings. Last of all, he scented himself with a perfume of sandalwood and amber, subtle but unmistakably expensive.

Regarding himself in the mirror, he observed, as a matter of fact, that he was beautiful. His fine straight nose, his brown eyes full of dark mystery, his pale northern complexion something refined and desirable, a face to seduce the most chaste woman in the city. Or man. And yet all he was and all he ever would be was an adornment to the emperor. Background decoration, like a mosaic or a gilded vase.

It was a warm summer’s evening. A pleasant hour for the greatest personages in the city to forget for a time the coming crisis, which rose ever higher like a black tide. Here they were, arrayed around a table of red marble cut