Emperor of Thorns (The Broken Empire, Book 3)

‘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. Everything 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.’