Emperor of Thorns (The Broken Empire, Book 3)

‘Why?’ I asked.

Hemmet turned his gaze on me, very blue, crinkles at the corners. He scratched at the white stubble on his chin. ‘Go through.’ He gestured with his staff of office, a rod of steel and gold, ending in a strange crest of red velvet tongues.

I shrugged and walked toward the arch, no taller than nine foot or so, a little narrower. Nothing until the last two steps. One more and the raw agony of my burn woke again in old scar tissue all across the left side of my face. At the same time the sharp and critical pain of Father’s knife thrust pierced my chest once more, spreading through my veins like acid. And the thorn-patterned box at my hip grew so heavy it made me stagger, dragging me down. I managed to reel back, a hand clasped over my burn scar, cursing and spitting.

‘Nothing tainted may pass,’ Hemmet said. He tucked the rod of office into his belt. ‘When the Hundred meet no magics can be taken within, no mind-sworn can enter to sway men’s loyalties, none tainted with ungodly powers can enter to threaten their fellow rulers with more than men should possess. Any influences exerted on a person will be wiped away should they be able to pass through the gate.’

I straightened, the pain fading as quickly as it had come. ‘You might have warned me.’ I wiped spittle and blood from the corner of my mouth.

Hemmet shrugged. ‘I didn’t know you were tainted.’ A big man, solid in his years. The golden half-plate he wore hardly weighed on him. A stunning piece of work, lobstered over the shoulders and around the back of his neck where it rose to a helm that bore more than the suggestion of a crown.

‘You try it,’ I told him.

He walked on in, turned and spread his hands. You could see he cared little for the Hundred, whether they call themselves king, or duke, or lord. There were many of the hundred, more names than most men could summon to mind, and but a single Lord Commander of the Gilden Guard. Hemmet.

‘So I’m to be left out here?’ I tried not to make it sound like whining.

‘Captain Kosson will show you in through one of the side passages.’ Hemmet smiled. ‘It’s only at Congression that you will be excluded, or should you seek to petition the Emperor when the throne is occupied again.’

And so I took the longer route into the emperor’s throne room. Whilst Sindri, Elin, and the other untainted nobles were led in through the Gilden Gate, poor Jorgy had to slink in around the back like a servant. Kosson led me through long dark corridors holding a lantern to light the way.

‘Most palaces can afford better lighting.’ It seemed a far cry from Ibn Fayed’s grand home.

‘Most palaces are inhabited by royals,’ Kosson replied without looking back. ‘Nobody lives here save a few servants to keep the dust stirred up. The guard come in and out during the years between Congressions, but we’re soldiers, we don’t need oil lamps in every niche. Shadows don’t scare the guard.’

I was about to say that perhaps they should, but something took the words away. ‘There aren’t any niches.’ No place for lamp, lantern, or even torch, nowhere to display statuary, baubles, or any form of wealth as nobles are wont to show.

Kosson stopped and looked up. His gaze led me to a small glass circle set flush with the white stone of the ceiling. ‘A Builder light,’ he said.

I saw them now, every few yards.

‘They don’t work though.’ A shrug and he carried on walking, swinging shadows around us.

‘This is a Builder hall? But—’ It hardly seemed possible. ‘It’s so … graceful. The dome, the archways and antechambers …’

‘Not everything they made was ugly. This was a place of power. Some kind of legislature. They built it grand.’

‘I learn something new every day,’ I said. ‘You think they might have had souls after all then, these Builders?’ I only half-joked.

‘If it’s learning you’re after, I’ll show you something most visitors don’t get to see.’ Kosson made a sharp left into a smaller corridor and then another left.

‘That is … unusual.’ I came to a halt at his shoulder.

A man stood with his back to us. He looked to be running but hadn’t a twitch of motion in him, as if someone had taken the trouble to dress a very well-executed statue in a one-piece beige tunic and trews, belted at the waist. In one hand a long rod, almost like a broom but topped with a mass of red strips, oddly familiar, in the other a strange cup, extremely thin-walled, half-crushed in his grip, a dark liquid spilling from it, going nowhere. It set me in mind of blood droplets exploding from a broken skull, hanging in the air forever. It put me in mind of Fexler.

‘So you’ve got yourself a Builder in stasis.’ I looked around for some kind of projector like the one that had frozen time around Fexler. The section of corridor looked identical to the rest.