The Court of Broken Knives

Just visible behind the High Altar was the curtained entrance to the room beyond. The room one did not speak of. The room in which a child would already be lying, waiting to die.
Orhan turned away. Don`t look. It is necessary. But don`t look. God`s great hunger for lives was a mystery of which he and most other educated men did not speak. As a boy he had thought briefly of volunteering, as all chidlren briefly did. The greatest and most sacred choice, his teacher had told him. But he had known, even then, that to choose it would have been somehow wrong, that his teacher and parents would have been outraged if he did. The greatest and most sacred choice, unless someone you knew made it, when it became something else. Something shameful, although he still could not quite say why. A bad thing.
Death is a bad thing. What a profound man you are, Orhan Emmereth.

"Oh, come on. I know what you`re doing. I can guess why. I might as well be involved already, frankly. I just need you to tell me when and how."
"Ask your spies, then. Or better yet, ask mine. They`re so badly paid they`ll tell you anything for a gold talent."
"A talent? My dear Lord Emmereth, they charged six dhol the last time I asked."
"For six dhol, I`m not sure you should trust a word they said. At that price, I`ve probably ordered them to tell you a pack of lies then throw the money to the nearest beggar."
"Ah, but they give me special rates. They all know me so well, after all."

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 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.

The people of Tarboran built vast tombs to their dead, as high as watchtowers, gilded and carved and fragrant with cedar wood. The money they must have spent, the time they must have laboured! A rich man`s tomb was planned for him from the day he was born. Imagine it, going every day to supervise the construction of your own burial place, taking pride in it as the greatest achievement of your life. Looking forward to dying so that you can be buried and dead. And then the fire came down upon Tarboran, and the tombs were burnt, and all the gold and glory lost. No one remembers their names, now, the tomb builders.
The people of Immier and Caltath, by contrast, feared death so intently and so absurdly that their kings became determined they should not die, and had themselves declared living gods who would rule forever. And, indeed, they did not die. But not dying is not a pleasant thing, in the end, and their rule was terrible, for they had no fear and longing and no hope. And the people feared death the more, when they saw their kings living on and on without end, while they died. Immier fell in ruin, its king raving mad, its people mad likewise. They say plants grew up in the streets and the fields blackened with weeds, while the people sat in their houses praying for immortality. Caltath was taken by the sea, drowned by floods in the course of a single night. Its king alone survived, clinging to the very tip of the highest mountain, now an island in a churning sea. Some say he sits there still, immortal king of a barren rock.

"Get up, boy, or I`ll have Rate and Alxine drag you out of here."
Marith blinked and smiled and something dark and rotten climbed out from behind his eyes. The background noises in the room faded. A sound from far off like a sword being drawn.
"No."
"This is an order. We leave, now, and tomorrow you`ll be whipped."
"I said no." Marith raised his cup, drained it, refilled it, drained it again. "I am a prince of the line of Amrath the World Conqueror, kin to the dragons and to the Living Gods of Immier and Caltath. In my veins flows the blood of gods and demons from beyond the realms of life and death. My family has ruled over empires the likes of which the world has never known. We have been kings since the land rose from the sea and men first crawled from the mud to do our bidding." He bared his teeth, his voice an angry hiss. "I do what the hell I like."
The dramatic effect was spoilt slightly when he slumped sideways and was violently sick all over his lovely new coat.

The noise and the confusion was almost too much for him, after the long days of silence in the desert send. He had liked the emptiness, the feeling of it like a pain in his body, fear and yearning and sorrow that cut like great claws. Dragon`s claws, he thought with a bitter laugh. Everything had seemed briefly easier, with nothing between himself and his shadows, nothing to think about but walking onwards in the dust. Calm. Clean. Empty. This clamour and bustle of life made him uneasy, as though he were walking a high tightrope and might easily fall.

The soldiers stared at them, asked them a few bored questions, waved them on. Past the gatehouse they stepped into the great cavern of the wall. The air stank of metal. Their footsteps echoed, a ringing sound that was unpleasant to the ear. None of them spoke.
It took perhaps ten paces to walk through. A very long ten paces. Almost a death, or a rebirth. Then suddenly they were out in a great square, the Court of Faces, blinking in the light, surrounded by people and sound and noise and stink. Like a magic trick. More soldiers gave them cold glances. Traders and hustlers surged forward, offering guides and recommendations for a good lodging house. A crowd of thousands, hair and skin every possible colour, clothing bright and dark and pale as water, glittering with gold. Colour and texture and beauty roaring in the eyes. Shouts in every language, birdsong and music, dogs barking, bray of asses, buzz of flies, bleating of goats. Sweat and incense, spice and honey, wood smoke and rot and shit and vomit and piss. Vast buildings, white marble, yellow brickwork, gilt wood, red paint. Carved porticoes and stone columns and velvet awnings and jewelled domes. Clockwork toys and paper flowers and silk carpets and caged birds and silver jewellery and roast meat.
The decaying heart of a decayed empire.

Mostly, my life is as dull and repetitive as any other. I have seen old pictures of emissaries from half the world kneeling in the Great Temple, spellbound and trembling before the might of Great Tanis Who Rules All Things. Now I officiate to peasants and petty merchants, while foreign kings laugh at us for our beliefs behind fat fingers. Pointless, it seems sometimes. All the candles, all the gold and silver and bronze. Pointless, in the way most lives are pointless. A ritual motion we must go through, for want of anything else to do or believe.
But that is not true. It is not pointless. Nothing is pointless, as long as one is alive. One moment of beauty. One moment of happiness. One moment of pain.
Life is for living. Nothing less and nothing more.