Emperor of Thorns

by Mark Lawrence

  ‘I should try.’ Katherine stood, uncertain.

  ‘Gorgoth has dipped his toes in the river. You swim in it.’ I shook my head.

  Over her shoulder I saw three figures entering the far end of the antechamber, preceded by a pair of guards. They drew the eye, this trio. Three more different delegates it would be hard to imagine. I kept my gaze on them and let it turn Katherine.

  ‘The Queen of Red, Luntar of Thar, and the Silent Sister.’ Taproot whispered it from behind me, using my body to shield himself from their view. Katherine drew a sharp breath.

  Luntar and the sister flanked the Queen of Red, a tall woman, raw-boned but handsome once. She had maybe fifty years on her, more perhaps. Time had scorched rather than withered, her skin tight across sharp cheeks, hair of the darkest red scraped back beneath diamond clasps.

  ‘King Jorg!’ she hailed me still twenty yards away, a fierce grin on her. The black swirl of her skirts flashed gem-light as she strode toward us, her collar rose behind her, whalebone spars fanning out a crimson crest that spread above her head.

  I waited without comment. Luntar I had met but held no recollection of. He boxed my memories in the cinders of Thar. Next to the queen’s splendour he looked dour in a grey tunic and white cloak, but few would remark on his clothing: his burns demanded the eye. I imagined that Leesha might have looked this way before the hurts done to her in the Iberico Hills closed over with ugly scar. Luntar’s wounds lay wet. Thin burn-skins parted with each movement to reveal the rawness beneath.

  ‘The Silent Sister is the one,’ Taproot hissed. ‘Watch her! She slips the mind.’

  And true enough, I had forgotten her already, as if it had been just the two of them, Luntar and his queen, approaching. With an effort, the kind you use when confronting an unpleasant duty, I forced myself to see her. An old woman, truly old, like the wood of the Gilden Gate, a grey cloak rippling around her, almost fog, the cowl hiding most of her face: just wrinkles and a gleam of eyes, one pearly blind.

  ‘King Jorg,’ the Queen of Red said once more as she stood before me, my equal in height. She rolled my name on her tongue – unsettling. ‘And a princess I’m thinking. A Teuton from the look of her.’ She glanced at the Silent Sister, the briefest flicker. ‘But her name can’t be taken. Mind-sworn? A dream-smith perhaps.’

  ‘Katherine Ap Scorron,’ Katherine said. ‘My father is Isen Ap Scorron, Lord of the Eisenschloß.’

  ‘And Dr Taproot. Why are you cowering back there, Elias? Is that any way to greet an old friend?’

  ‘Elias?’ I stepped aside to expose Taproot.

  ‘Alica.’ Taproot made a deep bow.

  ‘Had you been hoping to slip through the gate without seeing me, Elias?’ The queen smiled at his discomfort.

  ‘Why no, I …’ Taproot lost for words. That was a new one.

  ‘And you’ll be staying outside with us, Katherine dear.’ The queen left Taproot searching for his reply. ‘With the “tainted” as the Lord Commander likes to call us.’

  I caught myself thinking ‘us’ was the two of them, slipping into the conviction then jerking back as you do when sleep is trying to snare you. Focusing on the Silent Sister was hard, but I fixed my eyes on her and set a wall about my thoughts, remembering Corion and the power of his will.

  ‘I’ve heard of you, Sister,’ I told her. ‘Sageous spoke of you. Corion and Chella knew of you. Jane too. All of them wondering when you would show your hand. Are you showing it now perhaps?’

  No reply, just a small, tight smile on those dry old lips.

  ‘I guess the clue is in the name?’

  Again the smile. Those eyes had a draw on them, like a rip-tide. ‘Keep at it old woman and I’ll let you pull me in – then we’ll see what happens, won’t we?’

  She didn’t like that. Looked away sharpish, smile gone.

  ‘And Luntar. I don’t remember you. And that seems to me to be your fault, no? Perhaps you did me a favour with your little box, perhaps you didn’t. I’m not decided yet.’

  His face cracked as he opened his mouth to speak, clear fluid leaking over burn-skin. The echoes of old agony rang in my cheek, just as the Gilden Gate had woken them years ago when I first tried it. The fire still scared me, no two ways about that.

  ‘Would you like to remember me, Jorg?’ Luntar asked.

  I really didn’t want to. Would I like to burn again? ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Take my hand.’ He held it out, wet and weeping.

  I had to bite down, to swallow back bile, but I met his grip, closed my fingers around the hurt of his, felt the broken skin shift.

  And there it was, a glittering string of recollection, the madness, the long journey tied to Brath’s saddle, raving whilst Makin led us south into the scarred land they call Thar.

  Schnick. I’m staring at a box, a copper box, thorn-patterned. It has just closed and the hand that closed it is burned.

  ‘What?’ I say. Not the most intelligent query but it seems to cover all bases.

  ‘My name is Luntar. You’ve been sick.’ A smack of lips after each word.

  I lift my head from the box, my hair falls to either side and I see him, a horror of a man, a mass of open sores so dense that it is one sore.

  ‘How do you stand the pain?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s just pain.’ He shrugs. His white cloak, smeared with dust, sticks to him as though he is wet beneath it.

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask, although he has said his name.

  ‘A man who sees the future.’

  ‘I knew a girl like that once,’ I say, glancing around for my brothers. There’s only dust and sand.

  ‘Jane,’ he says. ‘She didn’t see far. Her own light blinded her. To see in the dark you need to be dark.’

  ‘And how far can you see?’ I ask.

  ‘All the way,’ he says. ‘Until we meet again. Years off. That’s all that ever stops me. When I see myself on the path ahead.’

  ‘What’s in the box?’ Something about that box makes it seem more important than all the years ahead.

  ‘A bad deed you did,’ he says.

  ‘I’ve done lots of bad things.’

  ‘This one is worse,’ he says. ‘At least in your eyes. And it’s mixed with Sageous’s venom. It needs to ferment in there a while, lose a little of its sting, before it’s safe to come out.’

  ‘Safe?’

  ‘Safer,’ he says.

  ‘So tell me about the future,’ I say.

  ‘Well here’s the thing.’ He smacks those burned lips, strings of melted flesh between them. ‘Telling someone about their future can change their future.’

  ‘Can?’

  ‘Choose a number between one and ten,’ he says.

  ‘You know what I’ll choose?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

  ‘But you can’t prove it.’

  ‘Today I can, but not always. You’re going to choose three. Go on, choose.’

  ‘Three,’ I say, and smile.

  I take the box from him. It’s much heavier than I thought it would be.

  ‘You put my memory in here?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. Patient. Like Tutor Lundist.

  ‘And you see my future all the way until we meet again in many years time?’

  ‘Six years.’

  ‘But if you tell me then it won’t be my future any more, and if you tell me that new future, that too will change?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So tell me anyway. Then take that memory too. And when we meet, give it back. And then I’ll know that the man who stands before me truly can see across the years.’

  ‘An interesting suggestion, Jorg,’ he says.

  ‘You knew I was going to suggest it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But if you’d told me then I might not have.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did you see yourself saying to the suggestion?’

  ‘Yes.’

  So I nod. And he tells me. Ever
ything that would happen. All of it.

  ‘Jorg?’ Katherine pulled at my shoulder. ‘Jorg!’

  I looked down at my empty hand, wet, pieces of burned skin adhering to mine. Lifting my gaze I met Luntar’s stare. ‘You were right,’ I said. ‘About all of it.’ Even Chella. I had laughed at that and cursed him for a liar.

  ‘So now you know a man who sees the future,’ he said.

  48

  ‘So now you know a man who sees the future,’ Luntar said.

  ‘A man who looked too far and got burned,’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how do we stop that future in which we all burn?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s unlikely that we can,’ Luntar said. ‘But if it can be done, then this is the best chance we have.’ He handed me a folded piece of parchment, stained by the wetness of his fingers. ‘Four words. Don’t read them until the right moment.’

  ‘And how will I know what the right moment is?’

  ‘You just will.’

  ‘Because you’ve seen it,’ I said.

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘And does it work?’ I asked.

  A quick shake. ‘Try anyway,’ he said. ‘Not every ending can be seen.’

  The Queen of Red watched on, with Katherine and the Silent Sister, all three of them studying me as if I were some puzzle that might be solved. Luntar cocked his head at the trio. ‘What do you think, Jorg. Have we the crone, mother, and maiden? The triple-goddess of old walking amongst us?’

  And for a moment it did seem that they could be three generations of the same woman. Katherine had the queen’s strength in her face, the sister’s knowing in her eyes.

  ‘Best be about it, boy,’ the queen said. ‘Time’s a-wasting.’

  And so I stepped in to kiss Katherine, bold as men are when the sands are running out. And she stopped me with her hand upon my chest. ‘Do it right, Jorg,’ she said. And I walked for the first time through the Gilden Gate.

  The emperor’s throne room, whilst not crowded, was certainly occupied. Close on a hundred and fifty lords of empire and their diverse advisors circulated around the throne dais. The throne seemed to float above them, a gaunt thing of bare wood, waiting for a victim.

  I stood for a moment, watching. Parties broke off to occupy side chambers, others emerged in agreement or further entrenched in opposition, guards looked on from their stations about the hall’s edge, and around it all the hubbub of talking and more talking.

  ‘You there!’ A tall man little older than me broke from his gathering just a few paces from the Gilden Gate. He had been holding forth to a group of a dozen or so, waving his arms as he spoke, glittering in gem-sewn velvet.

  ‘What?’ I answered him in kind, and for a moment he gaped, taken aback. He’d clearly marked me for a copper-crown, wandering in unaccompanied with my single vote. I hadn’t the years to be mistaken for an advisor.

  ‘How do you stand on the Mortrain question?’ He had red and beefy cheeks, reminding me of Cousin Marclos.

  ‘It’s not something I’ve given any thought to.’ The men behind him had enough similarity in style and colouring that they might all hail from the same region. Somewhere east, to look at them. Somewhere where the Mortrain question might be significant politics.

  ‘Well, you need to give it some thought.’ He jabbed his finger at my chest.

  Before it stubbed against the polished steel of my breastplate I took hold of it. ‘Why would you do that?’ I asked as he gasped. ‘Why would you hand me a lever to your pain?’ I walked forward, bending the finger down, and he backed before me, into the crowd of his supporters, crying out, bowing low to lessen the sharp angle at which I held the digit.

  Amid the group of eastern nobles, men from the steppes in their conical crowns or brightly-embroidered hats, I applied more pressure and set the man on his knees. ‘Your name?’ I asked.

  ‘Moljon, of Honeere.’ He hissed it through his teeth.

  ‘Jorg, of the west.’ I had too many kingdoms to rattle off for his benefit. ‘And you made two mistakes, Moljon. Firstly you gave me your finger. Worse than that, though. When it was taken you let it be used against you, let it be used to separate you from your pride. Don’t compound your errors, man. The finger was lost from the moment I took it. You should have surged forward and let it break, a small sacrifice to regain the upper hand and knock me on my arse.’ I looked around the gathered kings of the east. ‘It would be a mistake to put your faith in this one. He hasn’t the strength that’s needed.’

  I broke Moljon’s finger. A sharp crack. And set off to find my party.

  ‘I see you’ve met Czar Moljon. Recently inherited, riding his father’s reputation.’ Dr Taproot moved beside me and guided me to Makin and the rest.

  ‘Jorg!’ Makin clapped a hand on my shoulder. ‘I was just telling Duke Bonne that you’d be the man to intercede on his behalf with his neighbours to the north. Cousins of our good friend Duke Alaric.’

  I nodded and smiled, aware that in my scarred face my wolf’s grin might seem more fierce than friendly.

  ‘And where’s Miana?’ I asked. ‘And my son?’

  ‘She’s set off to find her father, sire. Sir Kent went with her. Gorgoth too, though he went sniffing for trolls,’ Marten said.

  ‘Trolls?’ I turned to Taproot.

  ‘It is reported that the last emperor had an elite guard, a guard within the guard if you like. The description I have read of them is “not men”.’ He put the matter aside with a shrug, a gesture as eloquent as the rest of his body language.

  ‘Tell me how we stand, Taproot,’ I said.

  ‘Watch me!’ And he laid it out for me in charcoal upon a scrap of parchment. ‘You have nine votes. Duke Alaric has two, and is like to swing two more, along with Gothman of the Hagenfast – his wife carries some influence there, I believe.’

  ‘Elin.’ I smiled, softer now.

  ‘Your grandfather carries two votes, Miana’s father another, and between them Earl Hansa and the Lord of Wennith are like to draw three more behind them. Watch me!’

  ‘I was just—’

  ‘Ibn Fayed commands five votes. And that makes our tally—’

  ‘Twenty-five,’ I said. ‘Not half of what I need.’

  ‘Twenty-six if Makin works his magic with Duke Bonne.’ Taproot marked Bonne down beside the caliph’s votes. ‘It speaks volumes for you that your support hails from the raw north to the deserts of Afrique. A man who can sway such disparate votes clearly has something to offer. The Hundred look at men like Moljon with a tight bloc of neighbouring states to back his play and all they see is special interest – a threat. When they look at a man who calls on favour from caliphs out of the hot sands and norse dukes in their mead halls – they might start to think they see an emperor.’ Taproot sketched the crown above my head. ‘And consider, you need fifty-one votes only if all votes are cast.’

  ‘Interesting,’ I said. ‘Get yourself and Makin amongst the Hundred and see who might be swayed, who our enemies are, and who heads any factions that might compete with ours. When a faction is broken it’s often the case that the pieces may be swept up easily.’ A bit of wisdom from the road. Kill the head and the body is yours. ‘Set Miana and Osser to it as well. And Gomst. Use Gomst on the pious ones.’

  Taproot nodded. He started to go but I caught his wrist. ‘Oh and Doctor, there may be a rumour circulating to the effect that the Pope has been killed. Be sure to say I had nothing to do with it. And if there isn’t such a rumour – start one.’

  Taproot raised both brows at that, but nodded again and went on his way.

  ‘Jorg!’ Lord Commander Hemmet surged through the Hundred as if they were sheep and he the shepherd. ‘Jorg Ancrath!’ Behind him the Custodian hurried in his wake, lips scarred and pressed tight. The story had it that he had emerged tongue-less from his centuries’ sleep. My guess is that when the Lord Commander finally unpicked the tangle of old-speech he found himself not liking what the Custodian had to say.<
br />
  ‘Lord Commander,’ I said. He had a face like thunder, suppressed energies sparking off him.

  ‘Jorg!’ He clasped both hands to my shoulders. Once upon a time he would have got a face full of my forehead for such a move, but life at court had taken that edge off. ‘Jorg!’ he repeated my name again as if somehow not believing it, and drew me close, so our bowed heads all but met, voice lowered. ‘You killed the Pope? You really did it?’

  ‘I damn well hope so,’ I said. ‘If she lived through that she’s made of sterner stuff than I am.’

  A gale of laughter broke from him, drawing stares all across the hall. Then forcing himself to whisper, ‘You really did it? You really did it! Damn me. Damn me but that took some stones.’

  I shrugged. ‘Killing old women is easy. But if I don’t walk out of Congression as emperor then I may only live a short while in which to regret the decision. There were, however, no witnesses other than my people and the Gilden Guard, and these are dangerous times. Even a Pope may meet a terrible end on the road these days.’ When you need something covered up in Vyene it’s good to have the Lord Commander’s favour.

  Hemmet grinned, a fierce thing. ‘Yes.’ Then a frown. ‘More dangerous than ever I had thought. The dead are at our gates. Through them, even.’ He let me go. ‘It’s not a matter to trouble Congression though. Their numbers are too few to reach the palace. We’ll be riding them down within the hour.’

  And with that he was gone, the Custodian trailing after him like a whipped cur.

  49

  Chella’s Story

  The towns and villages along the Danoob grew close together as Chella’s column approached Vyene. Soon they would join into one unbroken sprawl, washing up against the walls of the imperial city.